Blog

By Pastor Craig Pederson

In the wake of the momentous events of last week – the Chauvin trial verdict, the killing of Daunte Wright, the death of Walter Mondale, the uptick of COVID-19 cases – I’m still reflecting on the gospel text many of us heard over the weekend about Jesus being the Good Shepherd (John 10:11-18). If there has ever been a time when we’ve needed to listen to the voice of the Good Shepherd, and to be guided and comforted by that voice, it is now.

But I have also been thinking about a counter image – if there is a good shepherd, what does a “bad” shepherd look like? We get some idea of this earlier in John’s 10^th chapter: “All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. … The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy” (John 10: 8, 10a).

“In Minnesota, it would be convenient to assign the two former police officers into the “bad cop” category and move on. But that is too simplistic.”

There are voices in our culture, in our politics, and even in our churches that have been working to divide and destroy in order to gain or retain power – both historically and in the present. The racism and injustices against which we fight are examples of voices that seek to lead us astray.

There is another good/bad dichotomy that has been prevalent over the past year, one that will continue to be explored in the weeks and months to come: the notion of good cops and bad cops.

I’m not talking about the “good cop/bad cop” expression used as a strategy in negotiations or as a tactic in sales. I mean literally the good cops who represent the finest in law enforcement through their presence and engagement in our communities, and the bad cops who get out of line and betray their oaths to protect and serve. Bad cops are said to become that way either because they are “bad apples” that don’t reflect the whole bushel basket of cops, or because they are outgrowths of a systemic “rotten tree” that some say describes a troubled institutional police culture.

DEREK CHAUVIN’S TRIAL for the murder of George Floyd, and Kim Potter’s killing of Daunte Wright for which she will likely stand trial, have caused jurors, public officials, and the general public to explore what voices were being heard and what motivations were at work in these tragic events. This same exploration is taking place in Columbus, Ohio, with the killing of Ma-Khia Bryant, in North Carolina with the killing of Andrew Brown, and in several other officer-involved shootings of people of color around the country.

In Minnesota, it would be convenient to assign the two former police officers into the “bad cop” category and move on. But that is too simplistic; it would not take into account the fullness of who they (and we) are as individuals and how they (and we) have been influenced by a culture and systems that are broken.

In an interview on 60 Minutes this weekend, Minnesota Attorney General Keith Ellison described the strategy and approach of his legal team to achieve a guilty verdict for Derek Chauvin. When asked how he felt when he first heard the verdict, Ellison said there was a mix of gratitude, humility, and some satisfaction. Then he said, “I spent 16 years as a criminal defense lawyer, so, I will admit, I felt a little bad for the defendant. I think he deserved to be convicted. But he’s a human being.”

“Then he said, ‘I spent 16 years as a criminal defense lawyer, so, I will admit, I felt a little bad for the defendant. I think he deserved to be convicted. But he’s a human being.’” 

Surprised by Ellison’s response, 60 Minutes interviewer Scott Pelley asked him about his apparent compassion for the convicted ex-cop. Ellison said, “I’m not in any way wavering from my responsibility. But I hope we never forget that people who are defendants in our criminal justice system, that they’re human beings. They’re people. I mean, George Floyd was a human being. And so I’m not going to ever forget that everybody in this process is a person.”

When Ellison says “human being” and “person,” I hear “child of God” (and, as a Muslim, Ellison seems to hear this as well). Children of God need to hear the voice of the Good Shepherd, now more than ever. The Good Shepherd names the darkness and does not deny it, but also provides the Light and guides us to it.

As we continue to pursue justice and practice mercy in the weeks and months ahead, we do so with the courage and compassion made real by the resurrected Christ – the Good Shepherd who will not mislead us.

By Emilie Bouvier

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a comfy deep-seated camping chair, but still somehow managed to be on the edge of my seat. I was sitting around a campfire, but the experience reminded me of being in a seminary classroom with a favorite professor – rapped in attention, soaking in every word, scribbling notes faster than will be legible later.

I was sitting at the Palisade Line 3 resistance camp, listening to movement leader Winona LaDuke. Also in the circle were a handful of bishops and faith leaders and some visitors from New York who had made a long journey to be there. A few young men working on chores in the camp gradually grew closer and paused their work, perched on logs behind us, equally drawn in by her words.

“We can say ‘yes’ to a future free from the grip of corporate fossil fuel infrastructure, a ‘yes’ that opens doors for creative resiliency and energy independence at the local level.”

See, here’s the thing – much of the discussion is, and frankly should be, about the “no” that we need to say to new fossil fuel infrastructure. As Bishop Ann said so beautifully and clearly in her statement on Line 3, “We must together seek an energy future that is not dependent upon fossil fuels that continue to cause harm to ourselves and our planet.” And as Winona shared clearly that morning as her starting place for the conversation, “At the close of the tar sands era, the last thing we need to invest in is another pipeline.”

YET AT THE SAME time, if you listen to Winona and others for more than five minutes, there is a much deeper and more hopeful conversation beyond that initial and necessary “no” that punctuates the news headlines.

Religious leaders join Winona LaDuke at the Palisades Line 3 Camp.

Even the “no” itself stems from a deep and resounding “yes.” This is a “yes” to a deep joy and love for creation. It is a “yes” to a future free from the grip of corporate fossil fuel infrastructure, a “yes” that opens doors for creative resiliency and energy independence at the local level. This “yes” is something that Winona and indigenous community leaders with her are already leading on – from working entrepreneurially on plastics-free materials to investing in community-owned solar.

I heard firsthand Winona’s excitement and joy in imagining a new, just, and resilient economy embedded in local communities. I caught her vision for a resounding “yes” to engaging and building an energy system that enriches our skills and relationships rather than complying to an energy system rooted in separation and consolidated assets that ultimately leave our communities.

“It was striking to hear Dr. Rossing talk then about Revelation as image-based form of resistance.”

Our EcoFaith community organizing in the synod has been rooted too in this resounding “yes.” Together we’ve asked: “How do we re-think our systems to make renewable energies and energy efficiency accessible to everyone on a scale that meets the urgency of the moment?”

I have recently felt more hopeful in addressing this question than I have in a long time. We have been hard at work building powerful relationships with local energy decision-makers that can shape this kind of energy future, and we’ve been gaining traction.

We have to be able to say “yes” and “no” to the right things, and this work is a holy discernment.

HEADING INTO THIS Earth Day week, I was blessed by the voice of another powerful, faithful woman, professor and theologian Barbara Rossing. I heard her speak during a virtual EcoFaith retreat on Saturday, hosted by our friends in the Northeastern Minnesota Synod, and a slew of partners.

Dr. Rossing’s scholarship on the book of Revelation unpacks the text as an image-rich vision for the future that that stands directly counter to the empire ways of Rome – namely, the growth, conquest, and commodification of resources and the state-sanctioned oppression and violence that was enacted to protect that system. Its horribly chilling how familiar that sounds.

I stared at my zoom screen as Dr. Rossing shared this image from Dan Erlander’s Manna and Mercy depicting public thought during the Roman Empire. I certainly saw this image differently this week, having just heard stories of indigenous leaders arrested going to tribal prayer lodges near to the pipeline route and witnessing firsthand the militarized national guard presence in Minneapolis. These images are all too similar.

“Sometimes we need to say “no” to have the imagination to say ‘yes.’”

It was striking to hear Dr. Rossing talk then about Revelation as image-based form of resistance. Revelation offered to God’s people an eschatological vision – a vision of the future – counter to the Roman propaganda of the day. Sometimes we need to say “no” to have the imagination to say “yes.”

Friends, these are tense days and it is abundantly clear how much is at stake. From environmental resources to racial trauma, what kind of “no” are we willing to say amidst the grip of empire and its patterns of violence that keep things “the way it will always be?” And what kind of “yes” are we willing to not only imagine and proclaim, but work to build together on the other side?

By Pastor John Hulden

When I was 10 years ago, I got to tag along with my Dad to the 1970 Lutheran Youth Gathering in New York City. My Dad, Rusty Halaas, was on the team that planned for thousands of teenagers to descend on the Big Apple with nightly gatherings in Madison Square Garden. No matter that New York City was going through a very bad cycle of crime in 1970. No matter that there was a huge political divide in the country over the Vietnam War. (I realized at a young age that some Lutheran Christians don’t shy away from difficult issues.)

“For our ‘service learning,’ attendees at the 1970 Youth Gathering climbed aboard Pete Seeger’s Clearwater Sloop docked on the Hudson River.”

I remember walking into “The Garden” and seeing the boxing ring as the main stage. (In January 1974, the “Fight of the Century” – Ali vs. Frazier II – happened in that very same boxing ring.)

For our “service learning,” we climbed aboard Pete Seeger’s Clearwater Sloop docked on the Hudson River. We explored the boat, heard about protecting the environment, and sang with the world-famous Pete Seeger. His boat and lobbying efforts got the factories to stop dumping waste into the river, and also, Seeger’s work was one of the reasons the Clean Water Act become the law in 1972.

I’M AN OLD Lutheran pastor. I have an abundance of memories…. especially the 13 national youth gatherings I’ve attended. Here’s reflections from just two more.

“I am somebody!” As a teenager at the 1979 Lutheran Youth Gathering in Kansas City, I had front row seats to hear Rev. Jesse Jackson lead us in his litany of empowerment. (Trying to get front row seats is a longtime Youth Gathering tradition!) Then my world was rocked when I heard an African-American teenage girl sing “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” Powerful.

Brenda and Pastor John were pleased and surprised to find their portraits in the Superdome!

“As a teenager at the 1979 Lutheran Youth Gathering in Kansas City, I had front row seats to hear Rev. Jesse Jackson lead us in his litany of empowerment, ‘I am somebody.’”

Fast forward to the 2000 Gathering in St. Louis that I attended as an adult leader. We listened to Archbishop Desmond Tutu say “thank you” to US Lutherans and the rest of the world for standing with the oppressed in South Africa to end Apartheid.

Twenty years earlier as a college student, my friends and I tried to get Concordia College to divest in companies doing business with the white South African government. Our little group of activists failed. And then, two decades later, at a youth gathering, tears roll down my face when I hear “Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you” from Archbishop Tutu. A lesson was learned: The larger church can be a powerful force.

ARE YOU EXCITED TO join us at the 2022 ELCA Youth Gathering in Minneapolis? I hope so. Please don’t miss this opportunity to deepen your walk with Jesus and learn about your church and the world — as a teenager or an adult volunteer. You get to make memories with thousands of your new friends from across the ELCA.

Trinity Lutheran, Moorhead, Gathering attendees enjoy the dress up booth at the 2012 Gathering in New Orleans.

“Are you excited to join us at the 2022 ELCA Youth Gathering in Minneapolis?”

Wait, when is it? Oh, yeah, it will be July 24-28, 2022, in Minneapolis. I can’t wait!

P.S.  I am honored to serve on the “Synod Day” planning team for the 2022 Youth Gathering. Thanks in advance to all of our congregations who have agreed to host teenagers for the day in church buildings all over the Twin Cities.

Important dates to remember

May 22, 2021 Gathering Volunteer Corps application opens
June 22, 2021 Getting Ready Materials available
July 22, 2021 Gathering Volunteer Corps application closes
July 22, 2021 Financial assistance application opens
September 22, 2021 Early-bird registration begins
November 22, 2021 Regular Registration begins
November 22, 2021 Servant Companion application open

A shorter version of this blog can be found on the ELCA’s Youth Gathering website.

By Brenda Blackhawk

My great-great grandmother was born in 1896 in a wigwam in Nebraska. She died peacefully in her sleep in 1999, at the age of 103. I was 11 years-old when she passed. I never got spend much time with Minnie Gray Wolf Littlebear, but the times I did made an impression.

I only ever recall her being in a wheelchair, but everyone says she was tall. From the eyes of a child, she was ancient – wrinkled brown skin, hunched shoulders, white hair, and thick glasses. She preferred skirts and dresses to pants, always had a smile for her grandchildren, and had a major sweet tooth. Though she lived to an exceptional age, she never suffered the loss of her mental faculties.

“My Gaga Minnie still knew and practiced many of the old traditions of our people and was a wealth of knowledge when so much had been lost.”

She was revered by her family and tribal nation. She still knew and practiced many of the old traditions of our people and was a wealth of knowledge when so much had been lost. She gave me and most of her other grandchildren their Winnebago/Ho-Chunk names. The tribe threw her a huge birthday party when she turned 100 and people came from all over to appreciate her.

One thing I remember about Gaga (grandmother) Minnie was that I never heard her speak English. When we would visit her, my Choka (grandfather) or Jagi (father) would translate. It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned about Indian Boarding Schools – and that Gaga Minnie attended one.

THE PURPOSE OF Indian Boarding Schools was simple: “Kill the Indian, save the man.” Indigenous children were kidnapped and often sent hundreds of miles away from their homes. At the schools they were forced to assimilate; they weren’t allowed to wear traditional clothing, practice traditional religions, wear their hair in a traditional manner, or speak their native languages. They suffered physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. Disease often ran rampant in these schools, killing thousands.

For more than 100 years, the U.S. government instituted these policies of forced assimilation. And of the 300 or more schools, 73 of them were operated by the Church. No one knows exactly how many children attended boarding schools, because the government kept poor records and many children went missing. But, according to the National Native American Boarding School Healing Coalition, church institutions kept better records with a total of 239,169 children attending over the course of their operation.

“The staff at the Indian Boarding School would hit the children if they spoke anything but English, which is why my great-great-grandmother never spoke English again.”

Gaga Minnie didn’t start attending at five years old the way the government preferred. Her family hid her away and it wasn’t until she was several years older that she was discovered and taken 120 miles away to Genoa U.S. Indian Industrial School. Genoa was a federal facility and was operated like a military camp.

I don’t know a lot about Gaga Minnie’s experiences there. I know that she labored in the kitchens and became good at making bread. I know that when her mother was allowed to visit her, they shared the same bed. I know she said they were mean, that they would hit the children if they spoke anything but English. And I know that is why my great-great-grandmother never spoke English again.

Brenda Blackhawk with her Gaga Minnie.

Boarding schools caused so much lasting harm for Indigenous communities that there are entire books on the topic. As difficult as it may be to recognize that the Christian Church we love and belong to played a role in this cultural genocide, we must acknowledge it and work toward healing – healing for ourselves and the relationship we have with Indigenous communities.

In 2 Timothy 1:7, Paul writes “for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” It will be hard for us to confront the difficult truths of this subject, but I invite you, and church leaders everywhere, to be brave and to use the power and love and self-discipline our faith provides as we being this healing work.

We are fortunate to have an opportunity next month to learn more about the Church’s involvement in Indian Boarding Schools, and the legacy that system has left with many families. Vance Blackfox of the National Native American Boarding School Healing Coalition will lead a joint workshop for the Minneapolis Area Synod and the Saint Paul Area Synod on April 17.

By Pastor Norma Malfatti

This past weekend many congregations heard Psalm 51 in worship. This psalm is traditionally known as the psalm that King David prayed when the prophet Nathan, on behalf of God, called him out for his egregious sins of sexual abuse when he decided he needed to be with Bathsheba and then had her husband killed on the battlefield to cover up his crime.

At this point David can only hope that God has mercy. And we hear that desperation from the psalmist in the words, “Against you and you alone have I sinned O Lord.”

That’s where the wheels fall off the wagon for me. Could David really say that he only sinned against God? What about Bathsheba? Uriah, her husband? Or even Uriah’s comrades who were instructed to abandon him on the battlefield? Surely David sinned against more than just God.

“To sin against God was to sin against the community, whether it be an individual or the whole community.”

This brings into stark relief the cultural differences between 21st Century United States and the ancient world (and some places today too). In the ancient world, community life and relationship with God were inextricably linked. To sin against God was to sin against the community, whether it be an individual or the whole community. To sin against your neighbor was to sin against God. This is why Paul in 1 Corinthians is adamant that when one in the Body of Christ suffers, then we all suffer and when one is honored, then we all rejoice.

Yet this is not how we see ourselves today. Our culture teaches us that we ought to cover up our sins or at least downplay play them. Celebrity and political scandals notwithstanding, most of the time confession and the request for forgiveness happens in the writing of a note or the occasional conversation where we shamefully admit to our failings and hope the whole matter can be forgotten.

A FEW YEARS AGO, I had the privilege to be in South Africa on a study tour to learn about racial reconciliation with the hope of bringing that learning back to the United States as we wrestle with systemic racism here. While there I learned about the philosophy of ubuntu, which roughly translates to “I am because we are.”

In his book, No Future Without Forgiveness, Archbishop Desmond Tutu speaks of ubuntu like this, “A person with Ubuntu … does not feel threatened that others are able and good, for he or she has a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that he or she belongs in a greater whole and is diminished when others are humiliated or diminished, when others are tortured or oppressed, or treated as if they were less than who they are.”

“Ubuntu can be roughly translated as ‘I am because we are.’”

As we lament yet another racially motivated violent act – this time against women of Asian descent in Georgia – I am pondering again ubuntu and what it means to be the Body of Christ.  This past Sunday members of  ELCA congregations were called to observe a day of lament for the violence and hatred directed at our siblings of Asian descent simply for being who they are.

Whether or not your congregation observed this day, I invite you to join me in lamenting the fear of violence that our neighbors are experiencing. But I also urge you to reflect on ubuntu and just how God works in your life to create a heart and spirit of relational love.

By Pastor Craig Pederson

I’m an avid fan of “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.” I find Colbert to be incredibly smart, funny, entertaining, and insightful. The writers who craft the monologues and skits are amazingly creative, and the house band (called “Jon Batiste and Stay Human”) emotes an authentic and joyful New Orleans vibe that richly enhances the show.

Colbert is also a devout Catholic. I appreciate his openness about the importance of his faith, which he communicates not only through jokes and skits but also through the occasional sharing of opinions from his heart.

“After a few weeks of trying various approaches, Colbert finally just acknowledged the inherent strangeness and uncertainty of the new pandemic reality.”

I have really admired Colbert’s approach to pivoting his show during this past pandemic year. Upon going into quarantine lockdown, like other late night talk show hosts, he had to move from the bright lights of a packed theater to the mundane confines of a room in his house.

After a few weeks of trying various approaches while performing monologues to no audience and conducting guest interviews via Zoom, Colbert finally just acknowledged the inherent strangeness and uncertainty of the new pandemic reality. He changed the article before “Late Show” from “The” to “A” – saying that “A Late Show” indicated he really didn’t know what would happen from one day to the next, or what his show would look like from one night to the next. Each show was an attempt to capture some sort of perspective on a reality unlike anything we’ve experienced in our lifetimes.

WE, TOO, HAVE BEEN trying to find perspectives to help us navigate the past year. In our synod office, in congregations, in schools, in workplaces, and in homes, each new day seems to have turned into “a” day without precedent or prescription.

Along the way we have grieved losses, reckoned with injustices as seen through newly opened eyes (at least from a white-privileged point of view), cheered advances in battling the pandemic, and endured an election cycle that threatened the foundations of our democracy. We also wrestled with questions of what the church will look like on the other side of the pandemic even as we have toiled to “be the church” in the midst of it.

“We have wrestled with questions of what the church will look like on the other side of the pandemic.”

As we worked to adapt, learn, and lead on-the-fly, some of the things we tried fizzled while others went remarkably well (whether we planned it that way or not!).

But beyond just outcomes, I believe and trust that we are strengthening our faith practices for the journey ahead.  We are practicing new levels of grace, humility, and generosity – with others and with ourselves – that will serve us well as we learn new approaches to ministry from one another regardless of congregation size or location or status.

And we are more open to taking risks for the sake of the gospel. Think of the innovations and adjustments you’ve witnessed in your congregation over the past year. Would they have been possible in “normal” times?

And so it has been “a” year. I leave you with the following prayer from a recent blog post by Nadia Bolz-Weber that sums up these changes of this “season” quite well:

Dear God who made us all,

A year ago we did not know that we were about to learn: 

what we could lose and somehow live anyway

where we would find comfort and where it would elude us

whose lives matter to whom

why we have kitchens in our homes.

In mid-March 2020 all I knew for sure is that 

hoarding toilet paper doesn’t make you safe – it just makes you selfish.

But God, it feels like the world is about to open back up.  

And I’m both thrilled and kind of scared about that. 

Because I’m not who I was a year ago. 

I want so badly

to hug my friends again

and laugh like hell again

and have amazing conversations again

and yet I am not sure how long I could do any of this before crying or just getting really quiet. My emotional protective gear has worn so thin, and grief just leaks out everywhere now.

I am so afraid that I will never be who I once was. And I am also afraid that I will be.

(Not to mention, I’m not entirely clear what size jeans I wear as the me I am now)

And yet, when I quiet my anxious thoughts, I start to suspect that I am now closer to the me you have always known and always loved. So help me trust that, Lord. 

As things change, help us be gentle with ourselves and with each other. We are all wearing newborn skin right now.  

Amen.

By Brenda Blackhawk 

It’s no secret that I am a proud Northside girl. I grew up in North Minneapolis (Webber-Camden neighborhood to be exact).

My family ended up joining Salem Lutheran Church (42nd Street and Dupont North) because that is where my younger siblings and I went to pre-school. My Papa would babysit us during the week while our parents worked, and he would walk us from our house (43rd and Humboldt) down to church. Then, a few hours later, he’d walk back to pick us up and walk us back home.

Brenda’s house growing up in North Minneapolis

Sometimes, we would take little detours and swing into the T Shoppe to visit with the bartender; or into the corner store to pick up an orange push pop. As we got older, we made friends with all the kids on our block and our house became the cool place to hang out. Our best friends lived across the street and we saw them every day.  

“As we got older, we made friends with all the kids on our block and our house became the cool place to hang out.”

When we outgrew our little two-bedroom house, my parents moved us all a little bit north to Brooklyn Park. I was devastated. I may have been excited about finally having my own room, but I did not want to leave North Minneapolis.  

So, when I got my driver’s license at 16, I transferred to Patrick Henry High School in North Minneapolis, and suddenly I was back in the neighborhood I loved with the kids I’d gone to elementary school with. My teenage years we spent hanging out all over North at the homes of the friends in my large friend group. We knew how other people talked about the Northside – but for us it was just home.  

I STILL KNOW A LOT of people who live in that area. While it has certainly changed some, the vibe is much the same. So, when my spouse, Chris, and I were ready to buy a house, I knew I wanted to back to what was for me home. We prioritized the Webber-Camden area in all our searches.

Hanging out with friends after Patrick Henry High’s homecoming

It wasn’t all that long ago that people were fleeing North Minneapolis (as well as many other parts of the city) and you could hardly sell a house in there. Now, “thanks” in part to the gentrification of our city, the cost of living is skyrocketing. Chris and I couldn’t afford a house there. We eventually got a bigger plot of land and a bigger house in Brooklyn Park for less than the cost of something much smaller in North Minneapolis. 

Isaiah 32:18 states, “My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places.” We are all God’s people and all deserving of secure housing. And when people have that security, they are freer to live healthy lives, to dream bigger dreams, and to serve others, too. 

The issue of affordable housing and gentrification all across Minneapolis has been on the radar of many of our congregations for a long time. As a racial justice organizer, my work has led me to engage with these and related issues.

Allied with talented colleagues, I started building an ecumenical coalition over North to actively work to mitigate the effects of the gentrification that is raising the cost of living and displacing longtime residents. That project led us to an even larger coalition working on the issue of rent control. (If you are part of a Minneapolis congregation and are interested in joining in this work, please reach out to me!)  

“The issue of affordable housing and gentrification all across Minneapolis has been on the radar of many of our congregations for a long time.” 

Many residents across this city (and others) are just as invested in their own communities as I am. My story is not even a little bit unique. It is a common theme these days as we hear more and more stories of people being unable to afford to live in the city they have loved and lived in for years, decades, and even generations.  

I am left with a burning question that challenges my faith perspective: What does it mean to love our neighbors fighting to remain our neighbors?  

By Pastor John Hulden

The obituary from the small-town newspaper said she was 93 years old. Edna had moved to the small town when she was in her early 20s. Yet until her dying days, the other townfolk would say, “She wasn’t from here.”

Doris moved to the big city from North Dakota in the 1950s when her husband got a job at the Whirlpool factory on the Eastside of Saint Paul. She was active in her little neighborhood church, was the de facto Altar Guild committee-of-one, raised some amazing children, but never could call her Saint Paul neighborhood “home.”

Jim is a lifelong Lutheran who became enamored with the Left Behind books he checked out from his church library. Since he began to believe the rapture was a sure thing, and maybe during his lifetime, Jim couldn’t understand why his pastor kept pushing for protecting the environment and saving the planet if nothing was going to last.

During the ELCA conflict over “CCM” – that was the one before the 2009 conflict – a youth director friend of mine in greater Minnesota was in a conundrum. He liked his pastor a lot and, … his pastor was steering the congregation out of the ELCA. “What should I do?” he asked. My response: “Theology wins.” Whatever you hold deeply will eventually come out in the way you act and make decisions. The youth director stayed put, and the church did not leave the ELCA. The pastor started a new LCMC (Lutheran Congregations in Mission for Christ) congregation on the other side of the small town.

“If you took ash, or soil from a potted plant, or a burnt candlewick, or oil, or your bare-naked finger, and made the sign of the cross on your forehead, does that mean you are connected to a place?”

Last week, many of us figured out a way to smudge a cross on our forehead.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Our second season of Lent during a pandemic began.

FOR A YEAR, WE’VE been stuck in place. Do you have a Theology of Place? (My favorite definition of Theology is “faith seeking understanding.”) How do you understand your place? Your township? Your neighborhood? Your town? Your city?

If you took ash, or soil from a potted plant, or a burnt candlewick, or oil, or your bare-naked finger, and made the sign of the cross on your forehead, does that mean you are connected to a place? To the little spot of earth you’ve occupied these past many months?

“Congregational leaders will try to figure out how to grow deeper in their faith and how to connect more deeply in their community.”

What if Edna would have been seen as a full partner/neighbor in that small town all those years? How might have that town benefitted more from Edna’s gifts?

What about your new neighbors? How can we listen to their story, and partner with them to make our corner of the world a better place for all?

What if Doris adopted her big city neighborhood as her own? How would her life, church, and neighborhood have been different?

What if Jim saw his role as tending God’s garden, instead of our time on earth as a holding place until the rapture takes some away?

A FEW YEARS AGO, our synod assembly met under the banner “The Word became flesh, … and moved into the neighborhood.” John 1:14 [The Message]

How do we as individuals and congregations grow deeper in our walk with Jesus?

Our synod was gifted with a Lilly Endowment Thriving Congregations grant that allows us to try an experiment. Fifteen congregations will work and learn together for two years. (And another fifteen the two years after that.) Congregational leaders will try to figure out how to grow deeper in their faith and how to connect more deeply in their community. They also might learn, just maybe, that, since the Word already moved into their neighborhood, sometimes faith practices and neighboring practices are the same thing.

Here are three opportunities to find out more about Thriving Congregations:

Info Session: Thursday, February 25; 6:30-7:30 p.m.
Info Session: Sunday, February 28; 1:00-2:00 p.m.
Tool Kit for Congregations Workshop: Saturday, March 13, 11:00 a.m.-Noon

*Edna, Doris, and Jim are made up stories that are true!

By Bob Hulteen

Sometimes the new tech even reminds us of our mission.

“My name is Bob and I am an extrovert.” (Did you respond, “Welcome, Bob”?)

I am happiest at work when I am working with colleagues on a shared project that will make a real difference in the real lives of real people. I don’t mind long hours; I even love them when we are engaged in a tough campaign against entrenched forces that marginalize people. I think it is my spiritual gift, in fact.

Well, COVID-19 has really messed that up. You probably are experiencing that as well.

“We read from Joel, were reminded that ‘to dust you shall return,’ and prayed together — for each other and for our congregations and leaders.”

Now, surprisingly, I am not struggling much over the quiet of working alone – whether in my home office or at the workplace. But, encouraging my colleagues and being inspired by them, I miss that. I miss the community. In fact, I guess it would be honest to say that I even grieve it.

Sometimes when I grieve, I get grumpy. Sure, isolation is part of it. But, even more important, I think, is the loss of shared purpose and direction, of work that makes me part of something bigger than myself.

TODAY THE SYNOD STAFF had a half-day retreat. It’s a chance for us to think about goals met and unmet, of plans for 2020 that are unfulfilled. Our 2020 vision started with clarity, but eventually we could only see through “a mirror dimly.” And I want to be “face to face.”

The staff that Zooms together, …

Of course, we couldn’t be together. But Bishop Ann was determined to make the day productive, innovative, and fun. We met via Zoom, though we still shared pastries from Butter Bakery (a good Lutheran-owned business in South Minneapolis) that could be picked up from the office fridge at staff members’ convenience. We did talk goals and plans, but also reminded each other (and “newish” staff members Madeline Troyer, Norma Malfatti, and Nick Tangen) about our “strength finders” and “enneagram types.”

We read from Joel, were reminded that “to dust you shall return,” and prayed together — for each other and for our congregations and leaders. We used Zoom – breakout rooms even (though we didn’t use the polling function, which really disappointed me).

The Google Jamboard platform allows for putting notes on a timeline.

“Over the next few months, our Twin Cities community will be confronting the challenge of court verdicts and corona variants, … but at least we can do it together.”

We also used Menti to create a word cloud around our synod mission statement. (Don’t mind the fact that “pizza” is bigger than “Jesus”; it was an staff inside joke.) Most of us had never used the Google Jamboard platform before; we loved being able to use Post-It notes again, placing them carefully across a timeline, looking for intersection between our various responsibilities.

And, we even spent a bit of time playing Pictionary online. (I don’t want to talk about that anymore, … because I got robbed. Don’t you think “angry” is close enough to “anger” to count for at least half?)

Here’s my point. I’m feeling a little better, a little more connected, a little more “on game,” a little more part of something bigger than myself. I feel a bit more of a sense of community. And, it’s easier to believe in the “already, not yet.”

The Divine One is ready to meet us in ways we recognize. For me, it’s through community. And, today, I got invited to feel the touch of the eternity. Renewed, I am ready to enter the Season of Lent, even knowing that our community will be confronting the challenge of court verdicts and corona variants, … because we can do it together.

By Meghan Olsen Biebighauser 

A few days ago, my mom and I took my children to the Minnesota Zoo. It was basically our first “fun” outing to an “actual place,” as my kids put it, and we really needed it. My 3–year–old, Robin, isn’t old enough to remember much about pre-COVID activities like the zoo, so this was all new for him.  

As we walked the outdoor trails (which we practically had to ourselves), Robin was obviously thrilled. He did, however, keep giving the adults some real side-eye, almost as if he was thinking: “There’s been an actual tiger 15 minutes from our house, and I’m only just now finding out about this?!” It’s a fair enough complaint.   

We’ve had several moments like this, though, over the last 10 months. In some ways, our lives have been more mobile than ever: I can log in to work or worship from anywhere at all, virtually attend weddings and graduations around the country, or tour the Louvre from my bed, if I want to!  

You’d think this would make me feel more connected to a global community, or at least make my world feel larger. But instead I’m feeling more connected than ever to right here – the neighborhood that I call home.  

“The simple acts of waving to our neighbors, sledding down the hill at the local park, returning books to the library drop-off, have become major items on our social calendar, where they were footnotes before.” 

Because so many of our social connections have become virtual, the physical, embodied experiences that we have all happen, … right here, right where we are. With limited personal contact, the simple acts of waving to our neighbors, sledding down the hill at the local park, returning books to the library drop-off, have become major items on our social calendar, where they were footnotes before.   

We’ve made many joyful discoveries this way! Early on in the pandemic, my 8–year–old, Frances, took up geocaching. It’s basically a worldwide scavenger hunt, and we were thrilled to discover that these little caches – these tiny treasures – were hidden all around us on the streets we walk daily, in the park a block away, inside the tree we lean against when we take a snack break on the playground. “Mom, these have been here this whole time and we never saw them!”  

We’ve also grown quite fond of Fern, the deer that lives in the cemetery at the corner of East Lake Street and Cedar Avene – right in the middle of the city! Fern’s been there for a few years, and we’d spot her once in a while. But as our world has become smaller during the pandemic, we’ve become much more protective of Fern – making sure we see her every time we walk or drive by. And on days when we couldn’t spot her, we’ve reached out to friends and neighbors to make sure that someone’s seen her and that she’s well.   

I DON’T THINK IT minimizes the absolute trauma and horror of these last 11 months to name the places where we’ve made joyful discoveries in our communities. A congregation is gathered outdoors, including new neighbors who may never have stepped inside the building to worship, but couldn’t help noticing the (socially distanced) crowd outside. Another congregation hosts a drive-through event inviting attendees to write letters to an elected official about an urgent local economic justice issue and people show up to do just that (and donate money to “stop the bleeding” until our lawmakers act). More than 150 synod leaders show up in two parking lots on successive Saturdays to be trained in nonviolent direct action (because if we’ve learned anything this year, it’s that we belong to each other and that our communities need our embodied presence to survive).  

“Over the last 10 months, our lives have been more mobile than ever, … virtually.” 

Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, in his book The Wisdom of Stability writes: “Maybe the single most important thing we can do if we want to grow spiritually is to stay in the place where we are. … Indeed, we might even go so far as to say that true Christian mission is not possible until we have established roots of love through the practice of stability.”  

This year of forced-stability has been difficult, but I hope you’ve found moments of surprise and delight at the abundance that’s been right under our noses, unseen until now. I hope such experiences make us proclaim, as though we’d just discovered a tiger right in our backyard, “This has been here this whole time and I’m only just seeing it now?!”