Saying Goodbye to Our Puppy

I still remember the first time I saw him. It was just a picture of a sweet, 2 week old puppy.
He had been rescued along with his siblings and his mother. I fell in love with him instantly,
a kind of fierce love that let me know he was meant to be my puppy. I got in touch with the
rescue right away and he was earmarked as mine.

He came home to us, alongside his brother when he was 8 weeks old. We were their fosters,
taking care of them as they got neutered and got ready for adoption. Our older dog, Keeva was
so excited to have puppies in her life. She watched them sleeping in the crate, these sweet,
precious puppies. They slid on the ice in our backyard and filled our world with late night
bathroom breaks and laughter. We handed his brother off to his family when they were 12
weeks, and we signed his adoption papers. Zeke was ours. This little puppy, who was learning
and growing. I thought he would be a part of our household until the day he died. I wanted to do
so much for him. I wanted him to only know joy and love. We have pictures of him laying on top
of Keeva, this little rambunctious ball of life.

He grew and we saw the first signs of potential issues in his puppy class. I worried that we had
brought him to be trained too late. But we tried. He was separated from the rest of his class by a
partial wall because the first time he walked into class, he let out a high pitched whine. He was
nervous and excited and couldn’t contain himself. The trainers said he needed to be evaluated
and they set up a first evaluation. The trainer who was evaluating him never got back to us for
a second evaluation, though we tried to contact her.

But he loved Keeva, and we were committed to helping him learn how to walk past other dogs
without being scared. We were busy, and trying to get trainers to answer us was hard. We
worked with him, but it was never perfect. We just kept trying. We could only do what we knew
and I’m not sure we ever knew enough. We called trainers, but there was no reply. And to be
honest, at our old house, he only had a few scrapes with Keeva, relatively minor. Most of the
time they curled up together and came to us for belly scratches. We did what we could.

He always wanted to be so close to us, dropping the full weight of his body against our chests,
like he was trying to merge into us, becoming one with us. He would roll over and stick his stomach
up in the air, wanting belly scratches. His favorite place in our bed was under the covers between us.
He would lay his head on our legs and be so content.

Then this summer, as he approached 18 months, there was an incident with the neighbor’s 5 lb dog.
I was at a church retreat and the dogs accidentally got out of the fenced backyard while Jamie was
there with them. He followed them and the little dog decided to jump toward them. Jamie thinks they
thought it was a game. They didn’t seem to be vicious, but they didn’t stop and the dog died. I was
wracked with guilt, and both dogs were placed on a 10 day bite hold. They stayed in the same pen
together at the ARL and I was so worried that Zeke would get excited and something would happen.
That something never did happen and they came back into our care.

We started looking at moving. We discovered that we could actually buy a house, and we found the
perfect place. They would get a large backyard in a neighborhood where we could start fresh. We
moved in and it was and still is a perfect house for us.

But moving proved to be too much for our reactive pup. He started jumping at all the sounds. And
as he ramped up, he started jumping Keeva too, getting into skirmishes. We doubled down and tried
to find a trainer with renewed energy. We separated the dogs when he was likely to be excited and
worked hard on training him the best we could. It was hard, but we did find a trainer finally. We had a
date. We just had to work with Zeke and wait until we could get professional help.

But that date would never come. Instead, Friday came. I didn’t even want to go to work that afternoon,
but I was scheduled and I knew I would be okay once I got there. A few hours into my shift I got a call
from Jamie. The dogs had a bad fight and he thought his hand was broken. Evidently they had been
curled up, relaxed and happy, when a big banging noise outside startled Zeke. He immediately went
after Keeva. Jamie tried to break it up, and a bite intended for Keeva instead went into Jamie’s hand.
It was one of the hardest hours of my life as I contacted supervisors and waited for backup so I could
go home.

Thank God my parents happened to be in town to help me deal with what was going on. I took Jamie
to the hospital and then, on his insistence, left him there while I went with my mother to take each dog
to the veterinary hospital. Zeke was taken first. He was in pain and still filled with adrenaline. He
freaked out as the vet took him back because he saw another dog. They asked for permission to
sedate him so they could care for him. The last time I saw my puppy, my Zeke, the dog who crawled
into my lap, who loved to run with me and was obsessed with his toys, was as he bucked and barked
while being taken into the back room by the vets.

I got a hold of the rescue whom we had gotten him from and asked for them to pick him up from the
hospital. We would pay for his bills, but we couldn’t take care of him any more. Jamie’s hand was
broken and Keeva was in rough shape too. We had to protect everyone. He needed to not be in our
home.

It was a long night, going from the VA to another hospital with Jamie, having a hand surgeon clean
out his wounds and begin preparing him for surgery to put pins in his hand. I came back home to
Keeva, whom my parents had picked up from the hospital, and laid down next to her at 4 am.
She cried. I cried. I kept my hand on her as we fell asleep together.

And now it is Saturday. Jamie is still in the hospital. Keeva is home, mostly sleeping as I go back and
forth between her and Jamie. And as I get close to bed, all I can think of is Zeke. He is so loving,
yet a part of him is broken. I don’t believe in demons, but if I thought an exorcist could take his
reactivity away from him, I would contact one in a second. Just yesterday I was curled up on the
couch with him, his full weight pressing into my stomach, his tongue showering me with kisses.  

Mom told me it is parental guilt, the thoughts I have that I somehow failed him, that I wasn’t enough.
Intellectually, I know she’s right, but I still hold the shame of this moment. I still beat myself up for not
finding a trainer sooner, even though I tried. Shame tells me I didn’t try hard enough.

I know that in the end, I didn’t do anything wrong. I tried. I fought hard to help this little guy. I was
devoted to him. From the second I first saw him, I loved him. And now, out of love, I have to say
goodbye. His toys are still scattered around the house. His bowl lays in the kitchen. I still expect to
see his face in the window when I walk up to the door. But this time, he’s not coming home. Not to
my home. He has to find another one. He is on his own journey now, separated from us, who have
raised him and loved him from the beginning, who saw his face and had to call him ours. I can only
imagine how he’s reacting as they try to help him adjust. I worry that he may still end up being put
down, though I know who he is 98% of the time. He is funny and quirky and in love with people.
He just can’t be with other dogs because of his issues.

I sat in the backyard tonight, watching Keeva walk slowly through the grass. I looked up to the moon
and I asked where the resurrection could be in this moment. Where would the healing come from?
How could this time of deep pain be transformed into something more? I don’t have any answers,
but I looked up to the moon, and I prayed what I pray when I have no words left to say, trusting that
a mother who watched her son die on a cross can carry my pain with her too. “Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst all women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death. Amen.” I trust that this
woman who has felt the deepest sorrow a human can feel can carry my sorrows too. And as she said
goodbye, I say goodbye too.

Goodbye Zeke. Goodbye my sweet little puppy, so full of life. Goodbye to your beautiful smile and
your cute little spots around your nose. Goodbye to you jumping up into my lap and pressing into me.
Goodbye to letting you under the covers and feeling your boney little chin on my leg. Goodbye to
tossing your balls endlessly down the halls and running around with you in the backyard. Goodbye to
your gigantic smile as you jog by my side. Goodbye to you talking to us in whimpers as you
impatiently sit for your food. Goodbye to you licking Keeva’s face and trying relentlessly to get her to
play with you. Goodbye to all the love and laughter you brought into our lives. I wish I could have had
you until your dying day. I pray your death is in at least a decade. You have so much still to offer.
I love you Zeke. From the moment I saw your squishy little puppy face, I was devoted to you.
May Mary carry you as you go off into the unknown. Goodbye.

What does it mean to have a good shepherd?

Preached at St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, Newton IA 4/22/18

Texts: Psalm 23, John 10:11-18

On Maundy Thursday we stripped the altar. All the color was drained from this place. It lay empty,

barren. As I stared at the starkness, I thought about how brave that act was. I imagined what that

would be like if this place was permanently stripped, the building sold, the congregation dispersed.

It’s one of the fears that looms in many parishes. What if we don’t make it? What if, even after all the trials and struggles, all the learning and growing together with God, all the history, the doors are shut and the people who are left searching. I don’t think our parish is even close to the situation of closing the doors, but I recognized the fears in that moment. We have similar fears in our relationships, in our workplaces, in our national life together. A couple fears separation as they grow apart. There are rumors that the company is about to pack up and move on. Our nation hints at war. How brave it is to strip the altar, both in our building and in our hearts, to face those fears head on.

It can be like facing the valley of the shadow of death, like watching the wolves circling in the

distance, ready to pounce. It’s frightening. In those moments, I know I feel out of control. I’m just

bumping into others trying to find an escape route. It doesn’t matter what happens to those around

me because in those moments, I’m searching for survival. That’s what matters most. Survival. It is

my greatest want, my greatest desire, and I’d do anything to make that happen. To keep the

congregation together, to save the relationship, to keep the job, to bring our nation to where I want it

to be. I’d do anything. In those moments, I at least, really feel like a sheep. I’m confused, I’m lost, I

want direction. Any direction. I need someone who can stand above the herd and guide it, because I

can’t guide myself.

I wonder how many times I have been led astray by someone like the hired hand. They look good,

they talk a good talk, but in the end, I can see their backside as they run off, leaving me alone to

face my fears. My survival is not their concern. They are concentrating on their own. They are, in the

end, a sheep elevated to a higher status. They can peek above the herd a little, but their survival is

most important to them. They will leave everyone else if they can ensure they will live. They are like

us. They are at least like me. They are not shepherds, they are sheep in the shepherd’s clothing.

In the moments of weakness, of fear, when the predictions become reality, it can feel like there is no

guide, no leader, no authority. There’s just a flock running afraid, scattering, trying to survive as all

feels like it’s falling apart. It is a crucifixion moment. We watch all our hopes, our desires, our

dreams, hang on a cross. It’s heart wrenching. We stand like Mary, watching her son slip away. It

may feel like we will never laugh again, never feel moments of peace. Everything is completely

broken.

So what does it mean in these situations to have a good shepherd? If we can still feel all the pain, if

things still go incredibly wrong, then what is the point of having this leader?

Our good shepherd does not always save us from the incredible pains of life, but our shepherd is

willing to feel them with us. He would freely lay down his life for us. He weeps when we weep. He

feels the power and disorientation of our crucifixion moments because he’s been there. He descends

into hell with us, feeling the pain as things seem to only get worse and worse. He stays right

alongside us as we spend time in our own tombs. He never abandons us, never runs after his own

survival. Rather, he takes our stripped altars, our bare vulnerability, our woundedness, and holds it

tenderly. He seeks us out when we are lost. Even though we may walk through the valley of the

shadow of death, we don’t have to fear the evil, because Christ is with us. His rod and his staff

comfort us.

After the wolves have disbursed, as things quiet down, he tenderly gathers us back together,

cradling us in his arms as a mother cradles her hurt toddler. He tends to our wounds, wishing he

could take away all the lingering pain. Then the good shepherd, the one who lays down his life freely

for us, also takes it back up again. He slowly breathes resurrection life into us. It is not a quick

process, but it is an effective one.

Slowly we begin to dream new dreams. We’re able to see more than just a few feet ahead of us. We

may even laugh a true laugh, a sound that may not have escaped our lips for years. While we still

have our nail holes and the wounds in our sides, we are able to share life in community again. We’re

able to care again. The pain isn’t overwhelming. The pain instead becomes transformative. It’s

something we can use to strengthen others on their journeys, helping them to know that they are not

alone. We are resurrected with Christ.

These life crucifixions can be large or small. A parish could shut its doors, but it could also die to

former ways and find new resurrected life. I certainly don’t think this congregation is on the path of

closure any time soon. But we are on a crucifixion path that requires that requires the death of

defeatist ways, ways that see the wolves of the world coming and run in fear. We know that no

matter what, our good shepherd will be beside us. Christ will guide and lead us through it all. Under

Christ’s direction, we can find resurrection, dying to our own uncertainties and being born anew into

people certain of Christ’s leadership over us.

That is the gift of the good shepherd. No matter what happens, whether it is the worst possible

scenario, a minor set back, or a call towards a new way of being, Christ is along the path with us,

gathering us and leading us. We are never alone. Even when the wolves attack, Christ will not run

away in survival mode. Christ is taking this entire journey by our side. We need not be afraid

because he holds the key to resurrected and transformed life.

Snakes and Salvation

A Sermon Preached at St. Stephen’s, Newton 3/11/18

Texts:

Numbers 21:4-9

John 3:14-21

Sometimes I have to sit a while with a text because it bothers me. Our first reading today
bothered me. I found myself turning to commentaries only to find they were moving quickly
past the question that was on my mind.

In our first text today, the people of Israel speak against God as they often did on their forty
year wander in the wilderness. They were well into their journey. Miriam and Aaron, Moses’
sister and brother were both dead, and Moses was leading people who were growing older
and crankier with the arrangement. And in return, the LORD got cranky with the Israelites.
Or so it seemed. The texts says that the LORD sent poisonous serpents among the people.
Some commentators say the word should be fiery, one even imagining that these were
winged seraphs, flying fiery snakes in the sky. I’m not sure I would go that far, but the imagery
is striking.

The whole story of God bringing snakes to kill God’s own people makes me uncomfortable.
It bothers me. And it’s in line with stories that are equally disturbing, Noah building an ark so
the world can be destroyed, the LORD bringing plagues upon Pharaoh's household after
hardening Pharaoh’s heart, eventually killing people’s children, the list compiles as the books
unfold. I can see where people get the idea of a scary Old Testament God who needed to
sacrifice his own kid as some ultimate release of anger against humanity.

But what if we could view this with a different lens? What if we allow the text to be more
human than divinely scripted? What if it were a text written by people trying to figure God out?
People trying to find their place worshipping one God in a world that had both good and
trickster gods, ones that created both joy and woe? What if they were building their
relationship with God and didn’t have it all figured out just yet? What if the whole book is an
exploration of the divine by humanity, holy not because it is always right, but because it allows
us to be both bothered and blessed, helping us critically examine our faith and our life,
connecting us with our ultimate source of life in new and profound ways?

I officially became an Episcopalian five years ago. I had come to seminary searching, and
found a community that just did things differently. Ultimately it was the Book of Common
Prayer that won my heart, weaving scripture and prayer together in ways that are both
ancient and profound. That weaving, that subtle movement between prayer and scripture,
especially in the daily offices, which are Morning Prayer, Noonday Prayer, Evening Prayer
and Compline, my relationship with the Bible changed. I had always studied it, but never
really prayed with it. Maybe the Psalms, but certainly never a book like Numbers. But I found
that in weaving scripture and prayer together, reading scripture in a prayerful state, I could
encounter God in a new and exciting way. I could examine the Bible in a historical critical way,
but I could also ask questions of the scripture as questions to God, expecting to find some
response in the working of the Holy Spirit. I have begun to explore the Bible as the Ultimate
Prayer Book, a book about people asking questions of God, sharing their stories as they seek
to figure out how they relate to the Holy Spirit, how God is moving through them. Sometimes
they get it wrong, but a lot of the time they find a beauty that is beyond all imagining, worth
sharing with the world. It is strange and sometimes very weird, but ultimately exhilarating to
experience the Bible in this way. It allows me to move through passages that pain in a way
that expresses that pain back to God and lets me sit with it, not as pain inflicted by God but
pain that has changed people’s experiences and perceptions of God.

I still don’t have a fully fleshed out explanation for why God appears to do bad or petty things
in the Bible. But I find myself comforted in the fact that God never just leaves God’s people
there to suffer. There is a turn, an act of profound grace. I personally don’t buy that God
actually sent snakes to God’s people, but I do believe that God would send healing, even in
something as bizarre as a statue of a bronze snake.

We have the Gospel of John to thank for helping us wrestle with these snakes, this weird tale
from the ages of wilderness wandering. Without it, the tale might be glossed over, something
to read with bemusement.

But Jesus uses it as an illustration. Our gospel lesson today begins in the middle of Jesus’
famous talk with Nicodemus, where Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews comes to Jesus at night,
where Jesus engages him in a conversation about being born again.

Jesus states: “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of
Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the
world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but
may have eternal life.”

The odd ancient story about Moses erecting a bronze statue to save people against snakes
is used to show how Jesus will be lifted up to save people from evil and sin. Even those who
constantly complain against God, never satisfied with miracles like bread from heaven and
water gushing forth from a rock, who moan that it was truly better in their imagined “good old
days”, even they are given access to complete healing and transformation. And that is truly
good news, because I don’t know about you, but I am much better at complaining than I am
about giving gratitude to God.

We are just given one simple task, we have to look up. We have to see the weird bronze
snake statue against the blue sky. As we stare at the statue it becomes a cross, an ancient
horrific murder device that somehow is transfigured into the greatest story of redemption and
transformation ever told. As we stare, we have to trust that something can happen. We have
to put ourselves into God’s hands.

It’s painful coming to this truth, coming to this light. It’s easier to live with our heads down.
With our heads down, we don’t have to recognize how much of the world is not in our control.
We don’t have to see each other’s pain and recognize that what harms one harms us all. We
don’t have to find ourselves in a web of inter-dependence, relying on not just our own selves,
but on our neighbors, our planet, and our God. We struggle to create our own self-sufficient
lives, never recognizing how much connection plays a role in who has and who has not. We
live in a world of suffering, but we put on our blinders so we don’t see it.

But when we look up, we find God taking on that suffering for us. We are opened to seeing all
that is wrong, which is terrifying, but we can also see where God desires the world to be. We
find God’s dream, a reality we call the Kingdom of God. It is a bright shining light, giving hope
in the face of our deepest despairs. Because despite what the world seems to tell us, God’s
truth is that everything can be healed. All sorrows can cease. Every tear can be dried. We just
have to reconcile to one another, helping one another find healing in this broken world. It’s
hard. It’s pretty darn impossible if we think about it in purely human terms. There are a lot of
barriers I put between me and you. We have different wants and desires, different ambitions,
but if we look at the web of connection, if we stare into the dream of the divine, we find that
our wants and desires are good and noble gifts. They help us create a bright colorful tapestry,
God’s ultimate quilt of humanity, beautiful and rich. We’re supposed to be different, and we’re
supposed to also recognize the belovedness that each one of us holds as a child of God. We
have to give up our own desires for control in order to give the world to God’s control. In
return, God helps us grow, parenting us into amazing roles in building the kingdom. The quilt
grows brighter as it lives and moves and grows into fully alive people living in a fully alive world.

But we have to look up. We have to see the light. The light of God’s beloved child, taking on all
sorrow and suffering, lifted up like Moses’ bronze serpent, ready to both help us see all that is
wrong and also empowering us to be our full and true selves, helping to make the world right.
We are allowed to live and grow into this selfhood, looking for the Spirit and seeking answers
to the hard questions. We are given death and resurrection, continually seeking to die to the
self that wants to look down and growing into the person unafraid to look up to a God who
suffers with and for us that the world may have eternal life.

From Virginia to Iowa: A Reflection on the Violence in Charlottesville

The images and news coming from Charlottesville Virginia is haunting. What can you say about a bunch of angry white men carrying torches to intimidate and incite violence? The ugly head of white supremacy moves along the streets and has even inflicted murder on counter-protestors. It is chilling.

But it's also really easy for me to see this as a problem way over there in Virginia, in a city that I had personally never heard the name of before, and had originally gotten confused with Charlotte, South Carolina. That whole swath of the country is someplace I've never been. I spent three years living in Atlanta, but other than spending a week once in Washington, D.C., everything on the east coast above Georgia is a mystery to me. I simply haven't been there.

The places I know the best are Iowa and Nebraska. I grew up in Iowa and have been a frequent traveler to Nebraska all my life, getting my undergraduate degree there as well. I moved back to this place after seminary in Atlanta because the rich black soil called to me. The Midwest is home. But here we also have a white problem. It's more subtle than states with greater racial diversity, but it's here. It runs in our state narratives. We tell ourselves that we are just super white places. But I am mad that I never heard of the rich African American history in the city of Omaha, even when I lived in the state. I'm mad that Iowa and its cities are on lists of the worst places for black people to live, citing income disparity, incarceration rates, and the quality of education available in predominately black neighborhoods. We don't talk about it much, but we are there and we have to face the truth.

When I was young, my father showed me a KKK relic. It was something he kept to remind others that the KKK was still active and still dangerous. He wanted us to know that they weren't just in our history books, they were living and breathing people who organized themselves to this day. We lived for two years in the same small town as the KKK Grand Dragon of Iowa. It's here and it's real. Now we have a variety of similar groups joining with them. They no longer  wear masks, but they still carry the fire of intimidation, used to threaten anyone who stands in their way.

More than anything, I think Charlottesville calls us to see what is around us. It calls us to see our disparities. It calls us to recognize the diversity we, especially those of us in predominately white states, often ignore. It calls us to recognize real threats, real hate groups, living among us. It calls us to be real.

It's hard to sit with this discomfort. We want to sugar-coat it or say that it's happening over there instead of right here as well. But I have learned that the only way to resurrection, to total transformation of the self, is to go through crucifixion moments. Right now, that's what I think we need  more than ever. We need to allow this to crucify our nation and our states. We need to lament what is happening, to mourn, to weep, to sit in the ash heaps. Only then do I believe that something amazing can happen. I believe that the Holy  Spirit can sweep through us and bring an utter transformation of heart, of soul, of community. I believe we can turn things around. I believe that the torches of intimidation can be vanquished and the fires of love can burn so deeply that we can transform unjust systems. And as someone who has pussy-footed around these issues, who has felt lost in trying to figure it all out, who and can't stand my own internal racism that pokes its head through my consciousness, I believe that even someone like me can help and make a difference for those around them. I believe that crucifixion can bring even me to resurrection, and if it can bring me there, I believe it can bring our communities, our states, and our nation there too.