The Waterford Cookie Jar

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 6 Comments

When my husband and I got married nineteen years ago, one of the people on both of our invitee lists was a woman named Georgia, whom we’d both known before we knew each other. Georgia was the quintessential church lady. She would be 101 now if she was still with us, and was of that generation of women who (mostly) stayed home to raise the kids, volunteered out the wazoo, and never wore pants. That’s a tremendous generalization, of course, but you get the picture.

She was on the search committee for the first church I served. The first time I came to interview, because I was moving from the beautiful produce aisles of California to the iffy ones of the midwest, I asked if I could visit a grocery store. She looked at me for all of three seconds like I had two heads, but then said yes, and arranged a visit to the local Jewel Osco.

She was also the person who made the communion bread every month, except it was more like sweet pie crust than it was bread. I asked her once how she got to do that, and she said, “Well, when Chick C. was chair of the deacons he wasn’t married yet, and the wife of the deacons chair always made the communion bread, so I said I’d make and I never stopped.” At that point Chick C. and his wife had been married about fifty years. I didn’t question Georgia any more.

Anyway, when we got married she gave us a Waterford cookie jar which had not been on our gift registry but which delighted me. I never would have thought to register for such an elegant, impractical thing, but I loved it and love it still, though it now holds coffee pods and not cookies.

Reception after my ordination with my mom and dad in the receiving line.

October 3 is the thirtieth anniversary of my ordination to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) I’ve been reflecting on that a bit, because thirty years of anything seems like a long time, but here I am much to my amazement. So I’ve been thinking about people like Georgia, and all the other saints who got me to this day.

With the Revs. Eileen Parfrey and Laurie Newman, two of the clergy women I’ve been privileged to serve with

I dare not name them because I will undoubtedly forget someone, but I am filled with the faces and stories of people who encouraged me, challenged me, thanked and congratulated me; those who pissed me off or disregarded me, those who treated me like the hired help, those thought no woman should be in a pulpit and all those women who went before me so that I could take my place there. Thank you all.

On my thirtieth ordiversary, allow me to confess a few things.

Every year of these last thirty I have thought about leaving the ministry. Being a pastor can be glorious and can be utterly disheartening. I could make more money. I could have weekends off. I could tell people what I do for a living and not have them make immediate assumptions about me. A three day weekend could really be a three day weekend without having to take a vacation day. Every year I’ve thought about doing something else. But I haven’t.

Sometimes I admit that the real reason I went into ministry is so that I would be a good person. I wasn’t sure I could be good if I weren’t tied to God and the church. I worried I would give into greed, and consumerism, and selfishness, and meanness and, maybe most importantly, not hold myself accountable for those actions. I am far, far, far from perfect, but because I am a pastor, I work harder to be good than I would if I weren’t one.

The last confession is a good one: God and Jesus placed this call in my heart and my head and God and Jesus have not left me or taken that call away. That’s as good a reason as any why I’m still here. The love of God is as strong a tether as I know, and I am grateful, because there are seasons in pastoring when it all feels like free falling and without that tether, I would be a pile of broken bones and hearts and dreams.

So I thank my family and remember when Dad and Jack and I all got baptized on the same day and the day I told Mom I was going to seminary and she said she always knew I would.
I thank my first church family at Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church in Houston.
I thank the family that took me under care at First Presbyterian Church, New Vernon, NJ.
I thank my family at San Francisco Theological Seminary.
I thank my family at Simpson United Methodist Church in Minneapolis where I interned for a year.
I thank the congregations that welcomed me and taught me and then sent me off: First Presbyterian Church, Springfield, Illinois; First Presbyterian Church, Crown Point, Indiana; Community Presbyterian Church, Clarendon Hills, Illinois; The Kettle Moraine Parish, Waukesha County, Wisconsin; Southminster Presbyterian Church, Waukesha, Wisconsin; Crossroads Presbyterian Church, Mequon, Wisconsin. And the place where I am now, for twelve years, Westminster Presbyterian Church, Portland, Oregon.

Maybe a Waterford cookie jar isn’t a bad image for ministry. It is glass, which means if it breaks it shatters and you can get hurt, but it’s leaded glass, which means it’s also durable. You can see what’s inside, not only like the fishbowl that pastors live in but also the glimpse into the intimate moments of people’s lives. And it holds good things: children of God who gather for a million different reasons, who seek the love of their Creator, who seek forgiveness, who seek wisdom and community and cookies after worship and trust and faith and hope and love.

With co-pastor/husband, parking lot communion on Easter Sunday 2021. I added flowers to my face shield, as you do.

Thank you, all. Thank you.

PS: Statistics:
135 memorials/funerals
107 baptisms
48 weddings
652 sermons
6 calls

Associate Pastor (6 Years and 3 years)

Interim Pastor (22 months)

Half-time Interim Pastor of a Four Point Parish (6 months)

Temporary Supply Pastor (7 months)

Interim Associate Pastor (16 months)

Co-Pastor (12 years and counting)

The Superpower of Presence

/ Beth Merrill Neel / Leave a comment

I’d like to share a lovely (in the end) story from yesterday.

I was in my office at the church, and one of our staff members called. She was a block away, and a young man was having a medical emergency, and was that the sort of thing that a pastor might want to know or help out with. I said yes, and my co-pastor/husband and I went out.

Indeed, a young man had collapsed next to his car after stopping at the local bakery. Our colleague and another bystander had called 911, and had determined that the man spoke Spanish. I remember a decent amount of my high school Spanish, enough to reassure him that help was on the way. In the meantime, a woman who lived in the condo in front of where the young man collapsed came out to see if she could help, as did someone from the bakery.

Eventually a police officer arrived, and I think his heart was lightened that it was not a fentanyl overdose, which he has experienced a lot of lately. He made sure the paramedics were on their way, and soon enough, the EMT/firefighters arrived. I don’t know how to ask, “Are you dizzy?” in Spanish, but I was able to tell the EMTs that he had a horrible headache. I think I told the man I was a pastor and would pray for him, but I might have said that I was a shepherdess with gold. The police officer was able to use the emergency contact on the young man’s phone and reached his spouse. The ambulance came, started an IV, and took him to the hospital.

I went to the hospital, mostly because I wanted the man’s spouse to have someone to talk to about what happened. The fellow at the ED check-in desk could not have been any nicer. He took my card and heard the story which he said he would pass on to the man. I then found a chaplain, who was equally kind. I do wonder what they thought of me and my boundaries – but I figured I wasn’t violating any HIPAA things and I left the ball in their court to contact me.

This morning when I got to the office, the man’s spouse had left me a voicemail, thanking me and all those who helped. And then just as I sat down to write this post, the young man called. He was relieved I spoke Spanish. (I told him he needed to speak slowly.) He was better, and home, and he really just want to say thank you. But we agreed to get together for coffee next week.

So thank you to the strangers who noticed a young man in pain and stopped to help. Thank you to the neighbor and the bakery worker. Thank you to the first responders and EMTs and the hospital staff.

Remember, friends: kindness is never wasted. Being present to others really is a superpower.

And now I’m going to go brush up on my Spanish!

Delighting In

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

A group of seven amazing women have joined me this Lent for a discussion of the book This Here Flesh by Cole Arthur Riley. If you haven’t yet read it, stop reading this blog, order it from a bookstore or library, and begin to savor it. The book is like chocolate mousse – rich and beautiful and something to be savored slowly, like mousse or a really good Cabernet.

Anyway, last night as we discussed the book our conversation wandered off a bit, as happens. We were talking about how someone so young – Arthur Riley is in her early thirties – can write with such depth of wisdom. Maybe she is an old soul. But we also talked about how the love her father and grandmother showed her affected her. And then we wandered off in our conversation.

I am the parent of a teenager. I am blessed – as is my daughter – to have known some of her friends since they were all kindergartners. I know and love their parents. I have enjoyed watching them grow up and navigate all sorts of things we navigate – the onset of periods, the waning and waxing of friendships, latent talents emerging or big talents fading away – and things I never had to navigate when I was a teenager – mobile phones, social media, climate change.

As I watch these friends and my own child thrive and struggle, I want to tell them that everything will be okay, even though I know that isn’t true. Sometimes things aren’t okay and never will be. Sometimes the person is killed by the cancer. Sometimes the breaks in the relationship are unmendable. Sometimes the wildfires can’t be stopped. So resiliency matters, being able to weather the storm, being able to get back on one’s feet, or at least get out of bed.

One of the women in the book discussion group is a pediatrician and knows better than I the things that kids face, and the need to develop resiliency. A key to that, in my opinion though I think she would agree, is knowing that someone delights in you.

Who delights you? What awkward tween delights you? What child waving hi brightens your day? Who makes you smile when you think of them? And have you told them that, in so many words? And when you tell them that, do you make sure they know that your delight in them is unconditional?

Here’s the thing about resiliency and delight: they go hand-in-hand. Resiliency isn’t about pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Resiliency requires community, connection, knowing that you aren’t alone. Resiliency requires that you have cheerleaders, coaches, people who remind you of how delightful you are, even when you are in the midst of suffering or shame or grief.

Because we will all know suffering. We will all know shame. We will all know grief. That we all will know those things (if we haven’t already) is a bond we share. And maybe when you can’t get out of bed and all the colors look faded and nothing tastes good, you don’t want to hear that Auntie Jane adores you. But maybe Auntie Jane will show up with a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, and bring it to you in bed, and listen to you, because she delights in you.

So please, please: if there is someone you delight in, tell them or show them, especially if they are going through a hard time. Especially if they are a child or teenager, because they have been through it with Covid in ways we’ll never understand. Especially if they are a human being.

You, by the way, are delightful. Thank you for reading this.

Stars, once

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

The red maple leaf on the wet pavement looks like a star.

Maybe it once was that, a star, a star that

Exploded into infinite piece of dust that

Traveled across the galaxies and eons,

Just to land on earth and dissolve into the ground,

Waiting.

Until the samara whirleygigged one day

Onto the spot where the star dust lay

Waiting.

The seed took root

Nourished by the once-star

And grew and leafed and

Provided shade from a different star.

The leaf blazed,

Its explosion merely a fall to earth

There on the wet pavement,

A reminder of what once was

Eons ago.

And just to show its roots

That tree burst into leaves of orange

Calling back the star it once was.

Ah, September

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 2 Comments

I had forgotten so much about September in these past few years.

I had forgotten that those who can flee for beaches and mountains and just plain other places over Labor Day weekend, squeezing in one last breath of summer like pause. I forgot how quiet the block is, how fewer people show up for church.

I had forgotten the absolutely delightful sound of children screaming in fun on the nearby school playground; the posting of all the first-day-of-school pictures on social media; the sight of parent holding their kindergartner’s hand as they head to school for the first time.

I had forgotten the nostalgia and melancholy that whisper to me as the days are now visibly shorter, as the occasional cool night remind me of what is coming. I had forgotten that long-planted desire to buy a plaid skirt and mary janes.

I had forgotten how busy things get again for people, for families with kids in school, at church when all the programming starts up again and there are room schedules to juggle, and information to get out, and more demands on my time. I forgot how very extroverted I get in the fall.

Two years of a pandemic changed what I remember. In the midst of this weekend’s fire warnings across the state, I remember two years ago when the air quality index was literally off the charts bad. I remember the depressing silence of the nearby playground. I remember meeting everyone’s dogs, and then meeting those dogs’ people. I remember preaching to the tiny camera on my computer. I remember sleeping well and worrying a lot.

This September I am restless. I know I’m forgetting things despite my well cultivated to-do lists. I am restless for any weather other than skies that smell of smoke and have no color and host a pink sun. I am anxious to know if the families at church discovered other ways to spend their time on Sunday morning. At the end of summer, I long for a vacation.

So many September songs – I am not the only one who finds this a provoking month. “Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow and oh, so mellow.” “Do you remember the twenty-first night of September?” “Wake me up, when September ends.”

Well, it is a transitional month and we are in a liminal time, so perhaps restless or nostalgic or sad, or excited, or eager, are all valid.

Maybe I’ll go buy some back to school shoes.

When chronos and kairos collide

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 2 Comments

“Chronos time is how we measure our days and our lives quantitatively. Kairos is the qualitative time of life.” (Josep F. Maria, SJ)

I’m thinking about Holy Week, and worship services for Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter. I’m thinking about palms and azaleas and stripping the church. I’m thinking about despair and hope, short-term and long-term wins, and whether or not to invite folks up to the sing the “Hallelujah” chorus this year. In other words, I’m a pastor three weeks out from Holy Week.

On Holy Saturday, our group of dedicated volunteers will decorate the sanctuary for Easter: butterfly banners, white paraments, real azaleas and fake lilies, as the organist and this pastor are allergic to the real ones. The problem is that the flowers get delivered on Good Friday, and must be hidden away lest one preparing for the solemnity and sadness of Good Friday be confronted with the hope and life of Easter.

It’s like chronos time – the delivery of Easter flowers on Good Friday – collides with kairos time – the holiness and presence of God in despair and in joy. Maybe that’s just what life is: flowers in the midst of mourning.

It’s like all the images of sunflowers in social media, signs of support for the people of Ukraine enduring the horrors of war. It’s like wee flowering weeds pushing up between cracks in the concrete. It’s like that grain of wheat which must fall and die in order to bear much fruit.

To be honest, it’s what coming out of this pandemic (please, God; fingers crossed) feels like. There’s the chronos of fewer and fewer requirements to wear masks, and the declining numbers of hospitalizations and death. There’s the wonder of seeing people’s smiles in real life, and sitting in a restaurant and catching up with a favorite waiter.

And there’s the kairos of our emotional and psychological landscape having been forever altered by the experiences of these past two years. We cannot get back the things that we missed. We cannot say goodbye to the people who died when hospital visits were prohibited and memorial services had to be livestreamed. I can count five people who were dying whom I said goodbye to on the phone. It was awful. The sadness, despair, and anger that hung over us and inside us during the pandemic is not something that can be measured, put on a calendar, given an end date. Those things exist in the kairos time.

Some years when Easter morning dawns, I am still in Good Friday. Sure, I’ve written a homily for the day but it feels as real to me as the fake lilies that don’t make me sneeze. And there have been Good Fridays when I’m just pretending to be sad and solemn but my heart and soul are already at the empty tomb. As much as I like things to be in order, I have finally accepted that I cannot plan out my feelings or schedule my soul. And that is good.

So maybe this year, as I walk by the Easter azaleas on my way to conduct the Good Friday service, I will let all of that be, knowing that while God’s time is not my time, nor our time, God is still present with us all the time.

Why Churches Should Continue Their Online Services

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 2 Comments

Yesterday morning, as I was drinking my coffee and going over my sermon, which would be delivered to an online-only congregation, I read a headline and immediately had some thoughts. As of Monday morning, only two parishioners have sent me a link to yesterday’s New York Times editorial by Tish Harrison Warren, “Why Churches Should Drop Their Online Services“.

In case there is a paywall and you can’t access the editorial, in a nutshell Ms. Warren makes the case for dropping online services (which would include livestreamed and prerecorded) and going back to in-person services only. Her theological point is valid: Christians are an incarnational people, and worship is best in person, when it is visceral, physical, when we get to experience the best and worst of being with other people. We can hear their voices and the cry of babies; we can smell our favorite person’s perfume or shampoo; we hear the whine of hearing aids being adjusted, and truly share from a common loaf and common cup. Some of those thoughts are my extrapolation of hers.

But. But but but but but. I fear that Ms. Warren has not taken in the fullness of the Body of Christ into her argument.

Last night, my favorite group of pastors weighed in on the article in a text chain. I trust these people with my faith and with my life, with laughter and with preferences in bourbon. They agreed with me (which is always nice) and here is what we would say in response to Ms. Warren and maybe anyone who believes that online worship should go the way of tokens for communion, male-only clergy, and a publication of what each family pledges to the church.

First: not everyone can manage the physicality of our worship spaces. The congregation I serve has worked hard to make our sanctuary accessible, and it is, but it’s a long walk or wheelchair ride from the accessible entrance (which is right next to the garbage bin enclosure) to the sanctuary. And frankly, for anyone with back problems, our pews are uncomfortable if not excruciating. Some have a hard time wearing a mask for an hour or so. And some can see and hear better online.

Second: some people cannot come to worship. Some live far away. Some are sick. Some are unable to leave their home. Some live with chronic anxiety and public gatherings are terrifying. Some have a napping baby. There might be a winter storm with icy streets. Offering online worship provides a way to get that weekly dose of Jesus that might not otherwise be possible.

Third: computers are not going away. Online events are not going away. Using technology is not going away. We wonder how many of our committees will choose to continue to meet on Zoom, rather than drive to church on a dark and rainy night, going straight from work to a meeting without getting any dinner. Rather than shun the opportunity that online worship offers, we should embrace it.

There are probably more reasons but three seems a good number. Let me add that last night we made the decision to go back to in-person worship and I could not be happier about that.

And as for me and my house, we will continue to offer both in-person and online worship, to the glory of God.

Photo taken by a parishioner worshipping only. She and her husband are unable to attend in person because of health concerns.

One Miracle

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 2 Comments
Clouds Miracle Beautiful - Free photo on Pixabay

What if, in our lifetimes, we had the ability to perform one miracle?

That thought came to mind as I was walking the dog the other morning, when I often get my best thoughts. We were walking by my neighbors’ house, and I was wishing I could make his cancer disappear. That would be a miracle, because it’s the kind of cancer that cannot be cured.

What if we all got one miracle?

Years ago, a parishioner who was very dear to me experienced a cataclysmic medical event, went into a coma on life support for two weeks, and then, after the family decision to remove the life support, died. She was fifty years old, good, kind, funny, healthy, and beloved. When I went to see her in the hospital, unresponsive, machines helping her breathe, feeding her, helping her eliminate – that sound of those machines has never left me. I prayed so hard for a miracle. “Save her,” I prayed, again and again, knowing in my soul that only God could save her, that her recovering would be a miracle.

But it didn’t happen.

As I walked the dog, I entertained the idea. If I had one miracle, would I use it at the first opportunity and then be done? And if I did that, would I regret it later on? Or would I save it, thinking that if my child ever needed it, it would be there for her? And if she never needed it and I never used it, would it become a wasted miracle? Or would I save it for myself? Or would I use it for peace in places of war, or water in places of drought, or a contraption that would prevent catalytic converter theft?

By the time I was home and taking the dog’s leash off, I decided I would not want the responsibility and burden of having a miracle at my disposal. Too hard to make that decision, too much of a temptation to be selfish or selfless, to have that sort of power.

We don’t get miracles, but we do get other things, like patience and prayer, like hope and grace. We get doctors and scientists and pharmacists. We get casseroles and Postmates gift cards. We get friends who drop everything at moment’s notice. We get hospital chaplains and Kleenex and gallows humor. In the end, maybe all those are better than a miracle.

But if I did have a miracle….

Coming Back, a sermon on January 2, 2022

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

Isaiah 60:1-6

          What is our prayer for this new year?

          Right off the bat, I can think of about a hundred things I would like God to take care of this year. The Coronavirus, obviously.  Climate change.  Poverty. Cancer, Alzheimers, ALS.  Gerrymandering that benefits whatever political party.  Depression and anxiety.  Catalytic converter theft.  I could go on, and so could you.

          Today’s scripture from Isaiah is a kind of prayer for the people of ancient Israel.  You might remember the general arc of the book of Isaiah.  The first part, more or less, is the prophet warning the people of Israel that they have been unfaithful to God and there are about to be some bad consequences.  The second part, more or less, is the prophet comforting the people living in exile that God is not done with them yet.  The third part, more or less, is the prophet speaking to the people after they have returned to their homeland and left their exile. 

          While scholars don’t necessarily agree on this, let’s think of this passage as being addressed to the people who have returned to their homeland only to find that it’s not flowing with milk and honey but a pile of ruins.  Rebuilding awaits them.  But, Isaiah promises, God will be with them in the rebuilding.

They had come through a terrible, devastating time. As Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann puts it this way. “What you need to know is that Isaiah 60 is a very old poem recited to Jews in Jerusalem about 580 b.c.e. These Jews had been sent away from Jerusalem in exile in Iraq for a couple generations.  They came back to the bombed out city of Jerusalem, and they found it in shambles without a viable economy and without much ground for new possibility.  They were disappointed and ready to despair, for who wants to live in a city where the towers are torn down and the economy has failed and nobody can think what to do about it. 

          “In the middle of that mess in Jerusalem about 580 b.c.e, there was this amazing poet who invited his depressed, discouraged, contemporaries to look up and hope and expect newness in the city that God would give again. He promised that everything would change in Jerusalem because God is about to do good….”  (Inscribing the Text: Sermons and Prayers of Walter Brueggemann.  Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004.  P. 129.)

          I must tell you that when I read what Dr. Brueggemann wrote – “who wants to live in a city where the towers are torn down and the economy has failed and nobody can think what to do about it” – I thought of our Portland. 

          A few weeks ago I was at the Walmart in North Portland trying to take care of the Angel Tree gift cards, and as I went to my next errand I drove through the Delta Park area.  Have you been there lately?  I saw tent after tent after tent, pile of stuff after pile of stuff, burned out cars, and a few of the people who live there.

          My reaction was at it always is, when I see this at Delta Park or downtown or wherever: both deep sadness that people live this way and anger that people live this way.  What have we come to when we think it’s okay for people to live in this filth, without heat or running water?  And why don’t these people want better for themselves? 

          And so we have news article and editorials and tv segments about all of this.  Is Portland over?  Will we ever get tourists back?  Will businesses flee from downtown?  Can we build temporary shelters, transitional housing, affordable housing?  Will we prosper or will we perish?

          I know that the situation is complicated. 

Sometimes people lose their housing because they do not have enough money to rent a place, much less buy one and that involves not making a living wage and the high cost of living here. 

Sometimes people live without shelter because they have an addiction and have lost all their chances to be a part of mainstream society. 

Sometimes people live without shelter because they live with a mental illness that makes navigating the systems for help difficult or frightening.

          The economics of it are also complicated and I’m not sure that capitalism has an answer.  There are plenty of people in our city who make plenty of money, however you define “plenty” of money.  Some are very generous with non-profit causes.  And some ask the question, “Why should I give away my hard-earned money to those people?”  The system itself is stacked against those without resources, especially if they are people of color.  We live with the legacy of Portland’s history of redlining, not allowing people of color to buy property in certain neighborhoods. 

          To the people of Isaiah’s time, coming back to their devastated homeland, the prophet offers a vision of prosperity.  “the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you,

   the wealth of the nations shall come to you.

A multitude of camels shall cover you,

   the young camels of Midian and Ephah;

   all those from Sheba shall come.

They shall bring gold and frankincense,

   and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord.”

          As Brueggemann says, “This is a great cause for celebration, because God, in this poem, has promised to make the great city of Jerusalem work effectively in peace and prosperity.  The poem contradicts the present dysfunction of the city.  This is a promise from God, thus very sure.” (p. 130) He goes on to describe this text as the description of a way that will allow the people of Israel to return to normalcy. 

          Isn’t that what we are longing for – a return to normalcy? Prosperity for our city?  Restoration? 

          I think it is, but I also think we must be careful and thoughtful and compassionate as we move in that direction.  What will ‘normal’ look like after this pandemic?  What will prosperity look like in Portland?  What will restoration look like for any of us and for all of us?

          As we think about these things, maybe we start with our values, hoping that those shape the answers to these challenges.  As people who follow Jesus, we place the highest value on love and grace, which might look like compassion, empathy, forgiveness, and mercy.

          As people who follow the God of Isaiah and all the prophet, we place a high value on justice, which means, as we read the scripture, making sure that the most vulnerable among us are provided for in whatever plans we make.  As people of faith, we value hope – hope that God is not finished with us, with our city, or with our world, that God desires goodness for all of us, even more than we desired it for ourselves.

          And so a cleaned-up Delta Park or a bustling downtown must include, using the values of our faith, a plan for shelter, for addiction treatment, for physical and mental health care.  It’s not enough that the soccer pitches are clean and safe; it’s not enough to move the unsheltered to a different place.  We must also provide for them, those who live on the margins.

          And oh my goodness, that takes so much work.  And patience.  And hope.  It may be true that some who live in dire situations do not want help.  That saddens me, because I make the assumption that they do not think enough of themselves to want better, and I have a hunch my assumption may be totally off.

          So what do we do?  How do recast Isaiah’s vision for our city?

          First we look at what is already being done.  The city is looking into creating three villages with very modest, temporary cabin-like structures where the unsheltered can live.  Other non-profits, including Westminster and a consortium of faith-based communities, are in the process of building affordable housing.  That is an exciting expression of faith.

          For those living with addiction – what do we do?  I imagine every one of us knows someone who is addicted to alcohol, painkillers, or some other substance that tears apart the body and soul.  We might examine our own tendencies toward addiction, to develop our empathy.  We might learn about the neuroscience of addiction.  We might press our elected officials to offer better services.  And we might have to accept that some people will never escape their addiction, and might die from it, and know that they too deserve our love and compassion.

          For those roaming our streets who live with untreated mental illness – that is a hard one.  We have all sort of medications and therapies that help those who live with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or other illnesses, but – compliance in taking the meds, and access to the meds are stumbling blocks.  We simply need more services to help with mental illness – Unity Center for Behavioral Health is utterly overwhelmed. 

          Over all of that is our understanding of what prosperity means for Portland.  Does it mean business having record earnings, and stocks increasing in value?  Does it mean big bonuses for executives?  I hope not.  I hope prosperity means that everyone lives with the basics – shelter, food, clothing.  I hope it means that everyone has access to medical care for body and mind.  I hope prosperity means that people find community, maybe a church community, maybe a 12 Step group, maybe tiny village of temporary cabins.

          What is our prayer for this new year?  We always pray for those on the margins, and pray for God to show us our role in their prospering.  We always pray for strength and courage to face whatever comes our way.  But in 2022, I think we add prayers to move with openness into whatever our new normal is. 

          As we transition from the old year to the new, and as we move from Christmas to Epiphany, let us remember these words, this prayer, from Howard Thurman.

When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.

To the glory of God.

The Reverend Beth Neel

Westminster Presbyterian Church

January 2, 2022

Where things connect

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 2 Comments
Extending the Life of Your Artificial Hip - Advanced Orthopedics and Sports Medicine Institute, PC.

Every since I got my hip replaced five years ago, I’ve been more aware of the delicate nature of where things connect – joints in the human body. Ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, wrists, elbows, for Pete’s sake – they are things made to move and bend and connect but when something goes wrong, it goes wrong big time.

I’m thinking the same is true about humans. The places we most clash are those places we come together. Isolation has its advantages – all alone, no one can irk you, bump into, challenge you. And yet, and yet, we were not made to live in isolation. The last nineteen months of the pandemic have taught us that.

Still, coming together – or coming back together – has its challenges. We gather for whatever and we realize the things we didn’t miss, like someone unwrapping a peppermint during the oboe solo, or that person down the pew who cannot stay on pitch while singing the Doxology. Like our joints, when we humans connect with each other, we are meant to move and bend but I wonder if we’ve forgotten that in the last year.

Could I be more tired of COVID-19? No, I could not. And I am glad to begin to reconnect with people especially at church. I’ve also noticed that we’re all a bit more fractious, less patient with the little things, more demanding of what we want because we’ve been without it for so long. Then we bump into each other and maybe the joint will hold and maybe it will get, well, out of joint and maybe the whole thing will break.

Before and after my hip replacement surgery, I was given physical therapy exercises to do. They weren’t particularly difficult – raise the leg while lying on my back. They didn’t require particular strength or flexibility or skill. What was required was a regular dedication to doing them.

So I wonder, as we connect again, if there are small exercises we can do to keep our connections healthy and sound. Maybe we take a deep breath or two when someone starts to rub us the wrong way. Maybe we regard old friends and acquaintances with new curiosity. Maybe, even as we connect, we give each other space, let each other be wrong, or off-key, or annoying.

It’s been a while since I posted; my creative juices have been flowing in other areas, but I keep getting ideas for things I want to write about, so maybe you’ll see me here a little more. If not, let’s find another way to connect.

In a healthy or sound way, of course.

Peace to you all.