Blog

By Emilie Bouvier

If you’ve seen me from across the Zoom room at a meeting or virtual event lately, you likely have noticed the favorite thing that I’ve discovered about working from home this past almost-year of the pandemic: When I’m at my desk, I like to be walking!

So yes, if you see my head bouncing up and down a little in my frame, it’s just my normal pattern. While 98% of the time I’m terrible at multitasking, apparently my secret gift is being able to walk and type at the same time.

A mountain trail near Holden Village

It started out as a way to combat Zoom fatigue early into the pandemic. Especially after learning that without office colleagues or travelling to meetings (even if they’re just down the hall), I could accidentally go hours without even standing up, let alone tending well to my personal embodied-ness. So, I got a treadmill pad, set up an extra-tall card table, piled on some various stands for my computer and keyboard, and off I went!

I’ll confess, I do miss walking the trails in the mountains that I explored now more than a year ago at Holden Village. Yet, there’s been something beautiful about having literally walked my way through the ups and downs of these past months, within the four walls of my upstairs home office.

WHAT DO WE KNOW as we walk away from 2020 and into the hopeful but still uncertain 2021? Well, we know that none of our ministry looks the same, but that it’s more vital than ever. We need to listen and care for one another and our communities. We need to proclaim the daring, compassionate, incarnate God in our midst. We need to shift the systems of injustice by showing up together and holding our elected leaders accountable, even when showing up means entering our Zoom boxes to do the work.

A treadmill under a home-office desk

And, we know that these days even simple things can feel harder and small joys can make all the difference.

“We know that none of our ministry looks the same,
but that it’s more vital than ever.”

So, when I pick up the phone to try to connect (because seriously, it’s so hard to actually catch up with people at online events), I’m likely walking from window to window in circles while we talk. When I answer your email, in all likelihood I’m doing so from my walking desk. And when I feel overwhelmed by it all, I remember how grounded connected I felt to God while on the trail – letting the memory of the smell of warm pine needles and sounds of the forest calm me as I walk.

I think of the words of early twentieth-century Spanish poet Antonio Machado: “The path is made by walking it.” There’s so much we can’t control right now. But what we can offer is simply putting our feet to the ground and walking a path one step at a time, faithfully, together.

By Pastor Norma Malfatti

Are you looking for a savior?

Many have been labeled saviors over the years, especially when it comes to politicians. For instance, then-Sen. Barack Obama in 2008 joked, “Contrary to the rumors you have heard, I was not born in a manger. I was actually born on Krypton and sent here by my father Jor-El to save the Planet Earth.” (See the transcript of Sen. Obama’s remarks at the Alfred E. Smith Dinner.) All joking aside, President Obama was not the savior people were looking for.

Eight years later, people went to the polls thinking Donald Trump was the one who could save us and make our lives – and our country – better. Despite their hopes, President Trump has not been the savior people were looking for.

This week, Joe Biden will be inaugurated as the 46th President of the United States. To be sure, some of the 81 million people who voted for him believe that he will save us from the Coronavirus and the unemployment crisis that is crushing people. As with his predecessors, President Biden will not be the savior people are looking for.

AS MUCH AS WE might hope that a politician, tech innovator, or scientist will free us from pain and suffering, will be the force that eradicates racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, and all the other injustices that plague our world, none of them are going to live up to the task or title of savior. For us, as Christians, we reserve that honor for only one. This past weekend, many congregations read in worship services one of two passages – Jesus’ inaugural address in Luke 4:14-30 or the calling of Philip and Nathanael in John 1:43-51.

Rather than recognizing Jesus as the promised Messiah the townspeople in Luke wanted to toss Jesus off a cliff after preaching what the Savior was about: bringing good news to the poor, proclaiming release to those in captivity, freeing the oppressed, and declaring the year of the Lord’s favor. Nathanael was less violent and only judgingly wondered if “anything good can come out of Nazareth.” That is not the expected reaction to the one they should recognize as the Savior they were looking for.

“The season of Epiphany has always been a time of resetting my expectations of God and our relationship.”

Even John the Baptist wondered if Jesus was the one he was waiting for. To me, this shows just how easy it is to conflate God’s ways with our own expectations for God, especially in a season of deeply longing for a savior.

More than Lent, the season of Epiphany has always been a time of resetting my expectations of God and our relationship. Perhaps it is because the Gospel readings are about revealing who Jesus is and what the way of Jesus is about. Perhaps it is simply because it coincides with a new year. More than likely it is a little bit of both.

I invite you to join me over these next few weeks in resetting your expectations of God, of reconnecting with the ways of Jesus and letting go of what you might be substituting for Jesus’ ways. However you spend the rest of this Epiphany season, I pray that the ways of the Savior are revealed in your life.

By Pastor Craig Pederson

It was almost 15 years ago when I participated in my first online worship experience.  A wonderful young couple was getting married at the small urban church where I was serving.  The groom was from out of state, and unfortunately his father could not attend the wedding because of health issues.

But the couple was determined to make his presence possible in real-time, so they invested in the right equipment to facilitate the use of a new technology called “Skype.” (Remember when Skype was the only “virtual” show in town?) After setting up a camera, a microphone, and laptop on a rickety little table next to the pulpit, we tested the internet and attempted the connection – and there appeared the father on the screen, beaming with a huge smile.

Tears of joy flowed during that wedding ceremony as everyone was able to celebrate the real presence of real love in real time.

OVER THE PAST YEAR, I have reflected on that experience from time to time.  Back then virtual connection was a novelty and a Godsend. And, even over the past 15 years, it felt like a bit of a luxury to have the capacity and resources to connect so tangibly with someone who was not in the same room with you.

But in 2020 the pandemic has transformed that technology from a luxury to a necessity. It has become a tool to express compassion, connection, and community.

“The technological response to the pandemic has also demonstrated to us how much we increasingly long for ‘real presence’ with our siblings in Christ.”

“Zoom” has become a noun, a verb, an adjective, and a state of being. (Sorry Skype!) It has showed us how much we may have taken for granted the opportunity to gather together in person. It has also shown us how much we increasingly long for “real presence” with our siblings in Christ.

Let me make the incarnational move here to say that this year, more than ever, we truly needed the Christmas story of Emmanuel (“God with us”) to remind us of God’s in-the-flesh love for us. And then let me make the sacramental move here to affirm that the “real presence” of Christ is with us in Holy Communion through the earthly elements of bread and wine along with God’s Word, spoken in the Christian assembly (which has found new forms of expression through technology in these pandemic months).

“A decade-and-a-half ago, virtual connection was a novelty and a Godsend.”

As we enter into 2021 there is one more move we need to make: One of our biggest tasks as a church will be to practice more intentional, real presence with our BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) siblings within the church. Issues of race, class, equity, and inclusion have hovered around the church for decades. But the murder of George Floyd on a street within our own synod this year opened the eyes of many of us who, frankly, had the luxury and privilege of not paying closer attention before.

How will you utilize your time, your tools, your resources, your bodies, and your presence in the coming year?

I pray that the real presence of “God with us” will guide our hearts and minds to connect in ways that glorify God, and will teach us new ways to “be the neighbor” in our communities.  And while we give thanks for our virtual relationships, I pray that we can gather again soon to experience God’s grace and mercy in real time.

By Meghan Olsen Biebighauser

Month Nine of this pandemic has me thinking about how connected we are to our place – like, our literal coordinates. For the most part, I haven’t left my zip code in months. The walks that my family take are around the same couple of blocks; the people we wave to as we walk are the same couple of neighbors. My working-at-home desk is on the second floor overlooking the street and – I’m totally not a stalker – but ask me anything about my neighbors’ comings and goings, dog walking schedules, food delivery preferences, because I see it all.

We have an email chain for our block and, from my perch, I’ve been able to help my neighbors redirect a pizza delivery to the right house, locate their kids, and even track down some runaway urban chickens. I’m getting to know my neighbors much more intimately than I did back when it was safe to come and go, as well as to gather together.

I’m also thinking about how the most amazing leadership and service that we’ve seen this year has arisen out of neighborhoods. In the weeks that followed the murder of George Floyd by the police, just a few blocks from my perch above my street, we saw a groundswell of community caretaking through mutual aid networks. While I was volunteering at Holy Trinity during the days of the uprising, whenever we encountered a need that we couldn’t meet on site, neighbors were ready to jump in and take care of it; we only needed to call on them.

“I picture the holy family arriving in a new neighborhood, in need of just about everything, and being cared for by neighbors.”

I met a man who needed to get home from work, but public transit had been shut down to the area. A couple of clicks in a Facebook mutual aid group and five minutes later a neighbor arrived to give him a ride home.

The next day, a woman showed up and explained that she was leaving an abusive partner and needed a place to stay. After trying all of the typical pathways into the systems that exist for these situations, we were at a dead end. Another few clicks on my phone and she had an offer of a place to stay with two women (who were happy to welcome her for as long as she needed) and another woman who would provide transport from the church to her new hosts.

It was magical. Much of those emergency networks have quieted down as things have calmed, but once a week my spouse, Jeff, still does laundry for those neighbors of ours living in encampments, or in hotels. Once a week someone drops off a laundry bag of dirty clothes to our backyard, and Jeff washes, dries, and folds an individual’s clothing and leaves it back out in the yard for a pickup. It’s an act of service that’s intimate and entirely powered by neighbors.

THESE VERY HUMANE INTERACTIONS ALL strike me as beautiful. But it’s all happening because of a failure of leadership within the existing structures, systems, and safety nets. It fails when gridlock grips our public leaders.

From the mishandling of Covid-19 by the federal government, to the crisis of homelessness in our state, to the police brutality that has long been a problem in our city, local communities have had to step in and create alternate systems to care for one another when things have fallen apart.

Even in my own work in the synod office on the issue of payday lending, it’s become clear that neither Congress nor the Minnesota legislature will be the place for the action that’s so urgently needed to protect financially vulnerable Minnesotans. Who will step in to protect these neighbors? Apparently, it will be our local communities.

“Even in my own work in the synod office on the issue of payday lending, it’s become clear that neither Congress nor the Minnesota legislature will be the place for the action that’s so urgently needed to protect financially vulnerable Minnesotans.”

The city of Moorhead was the first community in Minnesota (and one of the very first in the nation) to pass a payday lending reform ordinance. This Northwestern Minnesota city won’t be the last. Neighbors in cities throughout Minnesota are launching campaigns to follow suit because, when larger systems fail (and they often do), we take care of the people closest to us – neighbor to neighbor.

This is all on my mind this week as I picture the holy family arriving in a new neighborhood, in need of just about everything, and being cared for by neighbors. The midwives showed up to assist Mary, just as they’d done with all the moms in the neighborhood for years. People in the neighborhood made sure they were fed and comfortable as Mary recovered from childbirth.

Until the day Mary sings of, the day that we work and pray for when God causes empires to crumble and tears tyrants from their thrones, we fill in the cracks in the crumbling structures with little glimpses of light by taking care of one another, neighbor by neighbor.

By Brenda Blackhawk

I love this time of year: the cold snap in the air, the spicy scents, and the pretty lights and decorations. And, I love the relational aspects of the season – the gifts (both the giving and receiving), the jokes, the games, and, of course, the incredible meals shared with loved ones.  

Advent into Christmas is one of my favorite church seasons. I love the Advent hymns and the Christmas carols. I love the anticipation and all the little ways we build up to the birth of our Savior. And I love the Christmas Eve service at my home congregation, Salem Lutheran. It’s special – the way the sanctuary looks soft and lovely in the candlelight, our voices lifted as the evening fades into deep night. 

“All the sadness and frustration and despair and anger has just been building up, undealt with.”

The events of this year have taken away so much from so many. From business activity and financial security to our sense of community to individuals’ health and lives. This year has been difficult, to vastly understate. And we have no reason to believe that anything will have changed for the better by Christmas.  

That means, as we are doing in all other aspects of our lives, we will adjust and cope the best we can. For some people, like myself, this is easy to say and do, but much harder to feel. We look for hope and fun and then we fight to cling onto it. We excitedly try to convince ourselves when we try to convince others how great everything will be.  

I am coming to the realization that for the past nine months I have been going and incessantly moving from one exciting event to the next. But all the sadness and frustration and despair and anger has just been building up, undealt with. 

THIS TIME OF YEAR can also be stressful and overwhelming with non-stop activity. As I write this, I already have both of my Christmas trees up and decorated. I have bought and wrapped more than two dozen gifts and I will be taking my brother and sister shopping again later this evening. The go, go, GO is a great distraction from all the sadness and despair, but it doesn’t make me feel anything but tired.  

“It is okay to cry about online worship on Christmas Eve.”

So, I give you all permission to feel all the “negative” feelings about how this year is closing out. I give you permission to mourn all that has been lost, both the things that we will never get back and the things that will one day feel safe and good again. It is okay to cry about online worship on Christmas Eve. It is just fine to rage and stamp your feet over the things that are out of our control, … and take lots of deep breaths. I give you and me and us permission to feel it all. 

Let’s just get our emotional reactions out now (and later and whenever we need to just feel it). Our family and friends – and even ourselves – might thank us later if we can feel true joy at Christmas. After all, ready or not, Our Savior is coming, with an abundance of grace and love for us all.  

By Bob Hulteen

I’m getting ready for a vacation (because in last week’s blog Pastor John said we all should “take ‘em”), so this blog is only three hot takes. You can “take ’em” or leave ’em.

Hot Take 1

The nine bishops of Region 3 and their staffs meet each November, usually at Joy Ranch in Watertown, South Dakota. This year, of course, we met inside our computers.

November is probably my favorite month, with All Saints and Thanksgiving, you know. And also, for the last seven years, November has included a trip with my synod colleagues out to Joy Ranch in Watertown, South Dakota. There we meet with the staffs of all nine Region 3 synods. We share struggles and successes, challenges and dreams. We study scripture and listen to experts on a variety of “churchy” topics.

Of course, 2020 is what it is. So, the Region 3 gathering was virtual. Instead of catching up in person with my siblings from the Western North Dakota Synod (and others), we viewed each other in 40 little boxes on our computer screens. You all know the gig: It was The Brady Bunch with a bunch of theological terms. (Side note: “Alice” from the show was actually a very active Christian who worked tirelessly on justice issues.)

“Someone — a particular person – identified these young people as persons whose story mattered and invited them into particular roles within the church.”

This year’s Zoom gathering included a panel of young folk who have re-connected with the church after some less-than-perfect experiences with the church. The talked about exclusion around their sexuality, their sense of hypocrisy, their disappointment that “church people” were more concerned with swearing and under-aged drinking than with oppressive structures like racism and sexism, their worry that some thought the building more important than people. They each recounted leaving the church in search of other groups or organizations where they could live out the gospel.

And each came back. As they talked, the thread seemed to be that someone—a particular person – identified them as a person whose story mattered and invited them into particular roles within the church. Someone was intentional in making the invitation to be a part of the way of Jesus. And, each one came.

Hot Take 2  

I really just wanted to play volleyball.

I am still playing volleyball, … on a Martin Luther-themed team named “Nailed It.”

At least that is what I thought. But, Pastor Ben Dove, the long-time Presbyterian clergyman in Mandan, North Dakota (and best friend of my pastor – Dick Hagestuen), had a vision. And, aware of my love of volleyball at 13 years of age and knowing that I had “activist genes,” he recruited me to play in the 24-hour volleyball marathon to raise money for CROP-Church World Service.

It was only years later that Pastor Ben admitted that he expected me to bump, set, and spike for the first year or two, but that his plan was for deeper engagement. After two years of playing, he “propositioned” me to help with some of the logistics of the marathon the next year. A couple years later, I was running the event (and Pastor Ben got a break).

“Pastor Ben and Organizer Kim were intentional in recruiting me to the work and encouraging my passion.”

Our successful fundraising work with the marathon and our initial venture into working on policy (trying to make sure people never got hungry, in addition to feeding those who did) attracted the attention of newly-minted Bread For the World organizing director Kim Bobo. On a trip to North Dakota, Kim recruited me to become more involved in Bread, a faith-based policy organization that lobbied on behalf of hungry people.

I became deeply involved with Bread for many years. But, it wasn’t an accident. Pastor Ben and Organizer Kim were intentional in recruiting me to the work and encouraging my passion. They made sure I was trained so that I could develop needed skills.

Hot Take 3

Experience shapes intentions, even if it shouldn’t always have to.

As you are well aware, the pandemic hasn’t just affected how the synod staffs in Region 3 meet. As we prepare to go into another four-week lockdown, we know that businesses, schools, holiday celebrations, and worship life are all affected.

I was struck this week by one person’s recent change in attitude about the pandemic. Former Rep. Nick Zerwas, Elk River, was an invited guest at the Governor Tim Walz’s Tuesday press conference. Zerwas – a Lutheran – had been a frequent critic of Walz (also a Lutheran), including on the topic of restrictions that the governor, using executive orders, put in place over the spring and summer.

I admit mixed feelings about my own interactions with Rep. Zerwas. Normally, we were on opposite sides of issues that I felt strongly about as a matter of faith. But, occasionally, we lined up in fairly similar places. I liked Nick better when we agreed than when we disagreed. In conflict, I found him to be hard headed; in agreement, more level-headed. (I guess that’s not surprising, right?)

But Tuesday, he was a participant at the daily pandemic press conference, speaking in favor of Gov. Walz’s decisions to require bars to close earlier and other restrictions. He pleaded with his former colleagues and other Minnesotans to come together to fight this terrible disease.

“This is a completely different ballgame,” Zerwas said to the press. “Everything has changed. The virus is here. If we don’t act now, God help us.”

Here’s my concern: The road to somewhere-not-too-good is paved with intentions viewed from the rearview mirror.

We all need to be more empathetic. But, I want us to be more empathetic for others without having to have an experience ourselves. I think “neighbor love” gives us the path to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes without having to grab those shoes and put them on.

“The road to somewhere-not-too-good is paved with intentions viewed from the rearview mirror.”

Empathy does not have to come from personal experience. It can flow from concern for others.

Rep. Zerwas, once having experienced a life-threatening bout with COVID-19, saw the light. I am grateful that he was reflective on his experience; and I find it courageous that he attended Gov. Walz’s press conference to encourage his former colleagues to take the pandemic seriously.

But, I live in hope that we can be intentional in our concern for others so that we can respond with empathy simply by listening, … and believing.

You all have a blessed Thanksgiving. I’ll see you on the other side of a vacation. (I’m cleaning the house. Yeah!) 

By Pastor John Hulden

I turn 61 next week. I’m old, and not necessarily wise. I tell you this because I’m going to sound like a grumpy old guy — during a pandemic no less. But blogs are not only exclusively warm fuzzies, are they?

So here goes. Continue reading at your own risk.

I want to call into question a catch phrase* I heard recently. In October, I was blessed with two glorious weeks in a little mountain cabin on a crystal clear lake in northwestern Montana. We didn’t even care when eight inches of snow fell on us out there.

“Did I do anything differently this year to deserve this vacation? Will the vacation be taken away from me if I don’t deserve it?”

When I mentioned to someone I was getting away, this very well intentioned someone said, “Have a well-deserved vacation.” (Truthfully, I do not remember who the “someone” was; really!) (If you were that someone, no worries, no big deal, I really don’t remember it was you.)

For some reason, a few hours later, maybe even the next day, “well-deserved vacation” kept ringing in my ears. Is it a well-deserved vacation? Did I do anything differently this year to deserve this vacation? Will the vacation be taken away from me if I don’t deserve it?

I realized a couple of things. If I stink at my job, I still get a vacation. If I am amazing at my job, I still get the same amount of vacation.

OUR SYNOD’S PERSONNEL policy grants me vacation. So, in fact, I “take” vacation. Don’t you? I “take” vacation whether I deserve it or not. I take vacation because a bunch of saints-advocates for pastors over the years insisted that pastors should have vacation. It’s written into guidelines. It has become standard practice. As a part of my synod work, now I advocate with church councils and call committees that. when they call a pastor or a deacon, they get vacation. There is very rarely any pushback.

Then there is this: If I think my vacation is well-deserved, where does that leave workers who don’t get a vacation? Workers who toil harder than me for an hourly wage? Folks trying to make it in the gig economy? Shouldn’t these workers get a “well deserved” vacation, too?

“Remember those who don’t get a vacation.”

This blog is not intended to make you feel guilty about “taking” your vacation. If you are allowed a vacation: Take it! Yes, and … remember those who don’t get a vacation. Elect leaders that support a living wage (with vacations and family leave). Encourage business owners to pay a living wage, then buy their products and services.

This catch phase conversation that went through my head brought me to another thought: the command to remember the Sabbath. We all need Sabbath. Heck, God needed a Sabbath. For our health and well-being, it is good to take a little Sabbath each day; a weekly Sabbath, too.

MY TIME AWAY TO Montana every year is my annual Sabbath. I am so privileged to have a job where I can take Sabbath — and get paid for it.

Maybe this rambling points us to a reminder to an Old Testament truth. When God introduced the Sabbath, it was RADICAL. Time off? Everyone should rest? Even slaves?

“I advocate with church councils and call committees that their rostered leader get sufficient vacation.”

My vacation was a gift, well-deserved or not. A gift that reminds me to work hard so others might have the same opportunity to enjoy a Sabbath of their own.

* In hopes of limiting how many grumpy blogs I write, let me get this out of my way now. Here are some more catch phrases that don’t make me happy. (My poor family has heard me gripe about these for years.)

• “thinking out of the box”
• “comfort zone”
• “I just want to thank ____ ”; (try saying “Thank you ____”)

One more, and I might get (more) in trouble for this one. When an organization or a movement works tirelessly to make the world a better place — people pour hours and hours into this work — and then their spokesperson says this:

• If it helps one person, it is worth it. (I scream, No! The positive change you are working for needs to impact lots of people, not just one person. Let me introduce you to some really good organizers that work with me!)

Ok, I’ll stop now. If I made your day harder, please forgive this grumpy old guy.

By Pastor Craig Pederson

We recently celebrated two significant rites of passage in our household. In September, our 16-year-old son Evan successfully obtained his driver’s license on his second attempt. (He maintains that he should have passed the first time, but the test administrator nailed him on a minor technical detail – another “life just isn’t fair” moment.)

Then three weeks ago, our 14-year-old daughter Nora affirmed the promises of her baptism at a beautiful, socially distanced, attendance-limited Service of Confirmation at First Lutheran Church in Columbia Heights (where Pastors Bonnie Wilcox and Jill Bergman are outstanding Christian leaders for the church and the broader community). Through her mask, Nora prayed the Prayers of Intercession for the church, the world, and the life into which she would now carry her baptismal promises.

“At a national and global level, the disruptions caused by the pandemic, by economic upheaval, and by racial justice awakenings are at a level we’ve not seen in our lifetimes.”

Rites of passage take us from one side of an experience to the other. Through the process of maturation, observation, and study, we usually know what will be expected of us once we pass through to that other side – that is, assuming the systems in which we are doing the “passing” are relatively stable and predictable.

This is not such a time.

“Disruption” is a buzzword often used to describe business dynamics, change management strategies, and even church trends. But the level of disruption we are experiencing right now in at all levels our society is mind-numbing.

AT A PERSONAL LEVEL, with his newfound mobility my son might have expected to drive to and from school and his extracurriculars, as well as to hang out with his friends, essentially unencumbered (other than our parental parameters, of course). But as I write this, an already pandemic-affected Halloween party he planned to attend has been altered because one of his friends had a family member test positive for COVID-19.

And for Nora, with her confirmation into the membership of our church, she had hoped to participate more fully in worship and service and to teach Sunday School. These things may still happen, but they will be much different than “normal” because of distancing restrictions and reduced opportunities for in-person experiences.

“Disruption is not always a bad thing. The tension it can produce is sometimes healthy.”

At a national and global level, the disruptions caused by the pandemic, by economic upheaval, and by racial justice awakenings are at a level we’ve not seen in our lifetimes.

Disruption is not always a bad thing. The tension it can produce is sometimes healthy, and sometimes necessary – as in the case of our current need to look squarely in the eye of systemic injustices and to commit to tangible actions.

But disruptions also mean that rites of passage do not automatically deliver us into a safe, predictable future.

THIS WEEK I AM reminded of another rite of passage that is being exercised by millions of Americans: young people, new citizens, and others. That “rite” is the “right” to vote. Even if we know the election results soon after the polls close, we may not know what those results mean on the other side. Many believe this is when the hard work of healing, reconciliation, and restoration will begin – in our churches, in our communities, and in our nation.

“But disruptions also mean that rites of passage do not automatically deliver us into a safe, predictable future.”

And what will be expected of us as children of God? That is a question for us to continue to discern together. The 2nd Reading for All Saints Sunday says it well:

“See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are. … Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: When he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is.” (1 John 3:1-2)

Let us look for Christ in the face of others, and shine the light of Christ into the lives of others, as we pass into the weeks and months to come.

By Madeline Troyer

While hiking the Great Smoky Mountains on the Appalachian Trail, I wrote in my journal: “It’s amazing how much the forest can change in a day, for a while we were on a ridge with small trees ancient trees, then a pine forest, now hardwoods, clusters of beech trees, a different type of pine forest, forest made of big strong trees, tunnels of rhododendron, and so many others I can’t describe.”

Alongside these stands of trees, diverse communities of fungi, slime mold, birds, salamanders, rocks, and other life thrived. Each ecosystem remains vivid in my memory.

“Trees, the same age as me, are using resources to call back the life that left the barren fields they are changing.”  

These forests are often understood as unique and separate worlds. But, as I walked from Georgia to Maine, I realized how these forests were connected as a larger system – a green corridor made up of unique individuals all acting towards a larger goal.

MY CONNECTION TO forest systems started the year before I was born when my Dad first started his tree-growing journey on our property by planting a small mix of pines and hardwoods. Over my lifetime, my Dad – ever dreaming of spaces to continue his passion – has planted more than 3,500 trees.

The state regularly provides us with bundles of what looks like dead sticks with roots. Holes are dug and the small seedlings are tramped into place. The next two years involve stomping back waist-high weeds so the small trees can emerge in order to reach the sunlight. (It’s hard to imagine what all of this hard work is for when I can barely find the tree among weeds.)

“This week I picked up leaves as I walked around our neighborhood reflecting on the lessons dropped on me from the trees.”

Looking out across the property, I can see the trees planted in 1996, now a forest full of owls that did not fly there when I was born and delicate pink spring beauties that have slowly replaced the invasive multiflora rose. Trees, the same age as me, are using resources to call back the life that left the barren fields they are changing.

As I walk through forests and the air moves around me, ranging from a gentle breeze to the strong wind, I listen to the trees dance while reflecting on Isaiah 55:12, where the trees respond to the joy of the Lord with songs and clapping. From Georgia to Maine the types of forests are very different, but all are connected. Old trees and new each started with a struggle for life and a dream to come. Roots are connecting underground, forming communication systems that scientists are only recently starting to understand. A community joined together as the lungs for our world provides not only clean air but habitat, food, medicine, energy, and an ethos of placemaking.

This week I picked up leaves as I walked around our neighborhood reflecting on the lessons dropped on me from the trees – the importance of diversity, of clinging to a dream of a better life and struggling through dark shadows to find the light, of community with each other and interaction with the larger systems that connect us, of giving all that we have as we move together with the wind celebrating and proclaiming with joy all that we are growing to become. I take some of the fall leaves home praying that some of their wisdom would continue to enter into me as a member of the larger ecological community.

By Emilie Bouvier

Last year, while living in the Cascade mountain at Holden Village, I spent a lot of time thinking about mosses. I had a ritual of getting up at daybreak at least a couple of mornings a week (I’m not an actual morning person, let’s be honest) to read in early morning light sitting on the porch swing or curled up in a chair by the window. In this sacred time of the morning quiet, I read Gathering Moss by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

Well known for her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Kimmerer writes at the intersection of indigenous wisdom, plant biology, and personal story. An avid fan of that book, I leaped at the opportunity to hear her speak in Minneapolis, and learned in hearing her of her earlier writings about moss and her background as a bryologist.

“All sorts of mosses flourish from their corners on exposed rocks along stream beds or in the slopes between the towering Douglas Firs and Engelmann Spruce.”

During her talk, she was asked about how we could learn to live more sustainably, and she responded immediately that we have a lot to learn from the mosses. They are, she pointed out, some of the oldest plant life on the planet, so they are clearly very successful at sustainability. Mosses are experts at living small, taking only what they need, and living in balance with others – making them excellent teachers. This stuck with me.

LESS THAN A year later, while in a completely new part of the country, I found myself consistently mesmerized by the mosses around me. Water runs abundantly in the Cascades; all sorts of mosses flourish from their corners on exposed rocks along stream beds or in the slopes between the towering Douglas Firs and Engelmann Spruce. The film camera I was using was mostly quite insufficient for capturing such amazingly tiny beauty. That was ok – mosses required me to put down my work and simply peer down at them at look, … and listen.

Between hikes I read Robin Wall Kimmerer’s words, learning about the distinctive biological features of mosses, but more, learning from their lives and patterns. I learned about how mosses use their advantage of being small, carving out their space to live in the thin “boundary layer” between a surface and the fast flowing air just inches above it. I learned about how mosses live in relationship to rocks, other plants, air, water, trees.

“The radical permeability of moss leaves means that, when the wind or sun dry up the moisture, the mosses cannot sustain themselves.

Yet most importantly, I learned about how mosses open themselves up to water. They don’t have the same kind of waxy coat to their leaves that most plants do, in order to hold the water in. Rather than building protective layers and systems of transporting water, mosses have a simple system of permeable leaves. They let in water immediately and directly, even though they then have no way of holding onto that water or transporting it.

This radical permeability means that, when the wind or sun dry up the moisture, the mosses cannot sustain themselves. They curl down and appear to be lifeless. Yet almost miraculously, mosses don’t actually die in this condition. They are not defeated; they are merely dormant. The moment rain falls again the permeable leaves immediately absorb the moisture. Within minutes they open up once again, full of life.

Mosses have a lot to teach us about resiliency. Among all of the lessons mosses have to offer, this is one I most remember and carry. I see their ability to weather the harsh seasons and endure – not by shutting down vulnerability, but opening to it.

Robin Wall Kimmer writes of her own stories and learning in relationship to the mosses. As she navigates her own ups and downs, she herself is moved by the radical vulnerability and fortitude of these small but ordinary life forms. “Mosses have a covenant with change;” she writes, “their destiny is linked to the vagaries of rain. They shrink and shrivel while carefully laying the groundwork of their own renewal. They give me faith.”

Photo credits: Emilie Bouvier

THESE DAYS ARE hard days. There is so much hurting and such deeps wrongs. We have a lot of work to do. But we’ve been talking a lot about the work, so here I am, compelled to add a gentle word about resiliency and the beauty of mosses.

I’ve heard my pastor colleagues often talk about finding themselves preaching the sermon they most need to hear. This is definitely that kind of blog for me.

“Mosses have a covenant with change.”

I need to remember it’s ok to slow down and think small sometimes. I need to remember the mosses teaching me their lessons about the long haul, their openness to raindrops, and the way of reciprocal relationship. I need to give thanks for the tiny beauty of the most ordinary and ubiquitous green life that surrounds us. May their wisdom also be a word of renewal to you this day, that we might be ready for what will be asked of us in the days to come.