Like a tin of favorite candy, or a notebook of pressed flowers, I keep treasured memories. Opening the pages, the feelings, scents, and companions return. Like a scene from a guided meditation, a dream, or an unexpected song playing in my mind’s ear, they are rich with promise, able to speak into my life… offering pockets of sun to help me keep going with joy.

Colorado has been on my mind this summer. The summers I knew there were largely carefree, spent sitting beside my black cat on my parents’ back deck, soaking up the mid-morning sun. By afternoon, relaxing in the hammock, listening to the sounds of the swaying aspen. My cat carefully moving through the grass on the day’s hunt… until the first drops of rain caught on my face, the rocks began to darken, and the rolling thunder snapped. Jumping to the ground, swooping in to gather up my soft companion, making our way inside moments before the deluge came.*

With the memory of it, I’m there once more, even if just for a moment, drinking in the morning light. Transported, the cells of my body open like a sunflower following the sun. And then I am filled. The spirit of my cat sits beside me, melting in the warmth. Safe. Home. Like the first day of vacation. Finally allowing my body to let go of all tension.

In the spirit of filling pockets with sun,

Jenna

*Excerpt from a sermon I preached July 16, 2017 entitled “…rain and snow from heaven…”

Image by Dietlind Wolf

The following sermon was delivered on Easter Sunday, April 16, 2017 based on Matthew 28.19 entitled: This is Resurrection!

In Matthew 28 is it recorded that “after the Sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of God, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’ This is my message for you.”

So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell the disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and greeted them. They came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him.”

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Today we remember and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. The Resurrection is the foundation on which the whole of Christianity rests, but do we fully understand it? No. Can I explain it to you so you’ll believe it? I cannot; and I won’t even try.

One can’t explain Mystery — one can only experience it. I can no more prove or explain the resurrection than I can explain love or prove the origins of the Universe.

I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to wrap my head around Easter.

Oh yes, I believe that something happened that   changed the lives of those present that morning.

Oh yes, I believe that something changed the world … as we know it.

Oh yes, I believe that Easter is about transformation and mystery.

What is hard for me, and my 21st century mind, is to relate to it. It seems too ‘other’ worldly … but is it? I’ve experienced earthquakes … and I don’t enjoy them, but I know what they are; I understand them. I’ve experienced death … more than I’d like to say. I don’t enjoy it, but I know what death is; I have experienced its sting and I understand this. I’ve even experienced angels, meaning, messengers from God (this is what word Άγγελος — angelos — in Greek means: messengers. Angel-messengers have confronted me, inviting me to look at my life and situations and people differently. In fact, many of you have been angels to me, whether you’ve been aware of this or not.

I know women and men, like the two Marys in the narrative, who stand by waiting, watching, serving and praying when death is imminent; when death occurs.

You might ask: have I ever seen anyone rise from the dead?

Actually, I have! I’ve seen lives turned around, I’ve seen forgiveness offered; I’ve witnessed medical miracles.

So, maybe it isn’t that Easter is so ‘other’ worldly, it is just so ordinary that we take it for granted which makes it extraordinary and mysterious. Like love: so ordinary, so extraordinary, so mysterious.

Reminds me of a movie popular some years ago, Chocolat. A woman, moves into a small hillside village in Burgundy, France and opens-up, during Lent no less, a chocolate shop. The mayor of this little hamlet is a very traditional uptight man of faith and during Lent one gives up many pleasures. One of which, of course, is chocolate! The town is split, some residents sneaking into her shop to taste some of this forbidden delight. The priest, finally of Easter Sunday, speaks what I believe is the truth of the resurrection; the truth about living Jesus’ commandment — to love one another.

In his sermon he said; “Do I want to speak of the miracle of our Lord’s transformation?  Not really — no. I don’t want to talk about his divinity.  I’d rather talk about his humanity. I mean — you know — how he lived his life here on earth … his kindness and his tolerance.  Listen, here’s what I think: “I think we can’t go round measuring our goodness by what we don’t do, by what we deny ourselves, by what we resist, by who we exclude. I think we’ve got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create, and who we include.” (From the movie, Chocolat)

This is resurrection — when we open our hearts to one another …letting all biases fall away.

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Victor Hugo in his magnificent historical novel, Les Miserables, describes how Jean Valjean (the main character) descends into a life where he becomes sullen and bitter.

Valjean, a common man, a laborer, caught stealing a loaf of bread for his starving family is sentenced to 5 years in jail. Those five years stretch to 19, and by the time Valjean is released he is soured and angry. His gloom deepens as he tries to get a job and cannot.

He had been marked as a criminal (and literally tattooed with the number: 24601). Hopeless and exhausted, he stumbles into the house of an old bishop who greets him with the hospitality and respect one would offer to an honored guest. Jean Valjean is confused by the Bishop’s generosity—this cannot be true—he was unable or unwilling to believe the genuineness of the Bishop’s actions so he steals some silver plates and flees into the night.

The next day the police arrive at the bishop’s house with the silver and captured criminal. Valjean, utterly dejected, is sure he’ll be returned to prison.

Confronted now by the man whom he returned generosity with treachery, the Bishop astonishes not only Valjean, but the police as well: “I’m so glad you’ve returned,” the Bishop said. “… in your haste you left the best behind, for I gave you these candlesticks as well.”

As Hugo narrates the bishop’s astounding words, he writes: “Jean Valjean opens his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression no human tongue could describe.” Forced to release their captive, the police depart.

The Bishop handing Valjean the candlesticks looking him straight in the eye and calling him, “My brother,” says: “You no longer belong to evil, but to good. Today, I have bought your soul for God.”

This is resurrection!

For Jean Valjean … it was through a simple act of forgiveness where he died to his old life — reborn to a new one. Easter, my friends, happens whenever we open our hearts and minds and lives to one another; it is when we touch one another. This is the truth of the gospel.

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Rachel Naomi Remen, a retired professor up the hill at UCSF, talks about an incident that happened to her when she was in her late twenties.

In her own words, Rachel writes: “at twenty-nine, because of Crone’s Disease, much of my intestine was removed surgically and I was left with an ileostomy. A loop of bowel opens on my abdomen and an ingeniously designed plastic appliance, which I remove and replace every few days, covers it. Not an easy thing for a young woman to live with, and I was not at all sure that I would be able to do this.

While this surgery had given me back much of my vitality, the appliance and the profound change in my body made me feel hopelessly different, permanently shut out of the world of femininity and elegance.

At the beginning, before I could (even look at my belly) much less change my appliance myself it was changed for me by nurse specialists. These white-coated experts, women my own age, would enter my hospital room, put on an apron, a mask and gloves, and then remove and replace my appliance. When the task was completed, they would strip off all their protective clothing, toss it away, and then carefully wash their hands. This elaborate ritual made it (even) harder for me. I felt shamed; I felt dirty.

One day a woman I had never met before came to do this task. It was late in the day and she was dressed not in a white coat, but in a silk dress, heels and stockings. She looked as if she was about to meet someone for dinner.

In a friendly way she told me her first name and asked if I wished to have my ileostomy changed. When I nodded, she pulled back my covers, produced a new appliance, and in the most simple and natural way imaginable removed my old one and replaced it, without putting on gloves.

I remember watching her hands. She had washed them carefully before she touched me; not after. Her hands were soft and gentle and beautifully cared for. She was wearing a pale pink nail polish and her delicate rings were gold.

At first, I was stunned by this break in professional procedure. But as she laughed and spoke with me in the most ordinary and easy way. I suddenly felt a great wave of unsuspected strength come up from someplace deep in me, and I knew — without the slightest doubt — that I could do this. I could find a way. It was going to be all right.

I doubt that she ever knew what her willingness to touch me in such a natural way meant to me. In ten short minutes she not only tended my body, but healed my wounds … and gave me another perspective on life.”

Several years ago, I attended a two-day event with Rachel where she shared a postscript to this story … some 30 years after the actual event.

On her way to the airport, a friend who was driving Rachel asked: “Were you ever able to talk with that nurse telling her what her action meant to you?” No, Rachel replied.

“You were at Stanford, right?” Yes. “A small community back then?” Yes. “And you never saw here again?” No. “Did you ever know her name?” You know, she mentioned it when she walked into my room, but I didn’t hear it. So no, I don’t know.

After a long pause her friend asked: “Maybe she was an angel?” Rachel was silent. She had never considered that as a possibility and never before wondered whatever happened to that nurse.

In those ten short minutes, it was as if God was saying through the touch of that nurse (or angel) … it’s not over yet: this is resurrection!

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All of us are between our old lives and our new lives — between what was and what will be. Maybe it is this in-between-place that is the place of resurrection. The place where we are challenged; where we changed; where we ‘get it’ that we are loved.

Resurrection, my friends, is never static. In fact, people who experience resurrection are translucent: the appear to glow from the inside.

Can I prove this to you? No, but I do know people who are luminescent, they do glow from the inside. They are peaceful, centered, free. There is in them a sense of nothing hidden; all opaqueness is gone. These are people, in my mind, who live resurrection; who practice it daily.

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I believe Resurrection is something we know when we experience it; like love.

I believe Resurrection is something like the forgiveness offered to Jean Valjean.

I believe Resurrection is something like the gentle touch of that nurse caring for Rachel.

I believe Resurrection is something we practice — it isn’t ‘other worldly’, on the contrary, it happens in the world where you and I live.

This is God’s promise to us. The more we practice it, the more freedom, interior peace and luminescence we’ll be able to share with the world … and this, my friends, is resurrection!

Christ is Risen: He is Risen Indeed: Amen!

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Seeking the Risen One among us,

Jeffrey Steven Gaines

At the February 7th meeting of the Presbytery of San Francisco, representatives from the Leadership Council of the Seventh Avenue Presbyterian Church voted in favor of a resolution to “affirm our covenantal commitment to offering welcome to all.” The resolution passed, and we offer it here with a slight modification:

Whereas, the President of the United States, by Executive Order on January 27, 2017 has suspended visas or restricted entry for Syria, Iraq, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen (in essence banning the majority of Muslim Refugees) entering into the United States, which serves to further harm those who are the very victims of terrorism, genocide, religious and gender-based persecution, and civil war

And whereas, this suspension contradicts the very foundations of our biblical faith to welcome the stranger and give safe haven to the refugee,

And whereas, Jesus himself, with his family, began life as a refugee,

Be it resolved, the Presbytery of San Francisco, of the Presbyterian Church (USA), meeting on this 7th day of February decries any policy that discriminates against refugees and asylees by nationality, race, or religion, as immoral, and un-American and our understanding of the Biblical great ends of the Church

And further, urges the President to rescind this Executive Order and restore the integrity and values of compassion and hospitality essential to our identity as a nation.

Please see the original resolution here: http://www.presbyteryofsf.org/2017/02/refugee-resolution-passed-by-sf-presbytery/
The modification changed the words “contrary to US tradition” to “un-American.” The reason for this change is to acknowledge past actions taken by the US Government, such as the Chinese Exclusion Act, Japanese Internment, and the National Origin Quota System (Immigration Act of 1924), among others.

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The following sermon entitled, ‘It’s here’ was preached Christmas Eve, December 25, 2016 by Pastoral Associate, Jenna Meyers.

The story that we re-tell this night that captivates our attention each year, this story that takes hold of our hearts as we invest our hope in a family’s well-being, that they will find safety, that this new life will be well… this story becomes our story. As they find refuge, we find refuge with them.

On this most tender and heartfelt, joyous and vulnerable night, in the darkest part of the year, we send out our hope for well-being. And the answer to our prayer finds us here.

The prophets of old have proclaimed it to us before with voices booming. When the people prayed for Shalom, for that fullness of well-being, the response came as resolute as thunder: “What are you asking me for? What you are looking for, has already been given.”

And this time, this night, our searching for well-being comes with a birth story, that the answer might grow and unfold within ourselves in the telling. The peace, the well-being you are searching for is here.

Beneath a star-studded sky, a child is born. And one by one, the community gathers, helping to tell the story. Mary, Joseph, a multitude of the heavenly host, the shepherds, the animals each with part to tell. And the women from Bethlehem town come too, as the poet Joy Mead imagines, carrying bread freshly baked. “They come, as at every birth: to wonder at tiny fingers and toes, to welcome holy flesh and blood, with the joy of touch and kiss and story, to look deep into innocent infant eyes, and ponder, “What will this child be?”’

In our search for well-being, the response comes: it is here.

We are pulled to go with the women and the shepherds and see this thing that has happened, that the Holy has made known to us. And we are brought to a birth amongst the animals, making human, making earthy, the Christ story. In its humanness, in its earthiness, we encounter something sacred. As we peer into the eyes of the baby, we can’t help but be taken by wonder. Seeing this life that is of God. That is of us. That is its own.

Birth is a time of wonder. But birth is also a precarious, vulnerable time when the baby and the family need tender care. There is the possibility of death, even in the best of circumstances. If you are near the birth, you are paying attention. You are in the marathon with them. You are affected, changed, invested in the birth going well.

When the baby comes we don’t have everything figured out. It takes time for the baby and parents to come to their own rhythms, to learn how to read the cues. And so we need the community to gather to help us find our way. To support us in practical ways, offering food and rest. And in story, reminding us that others have gone before us and we will be able to find our way too. We need the community to gather and participate in welcoming and celebrating this new life.

As I find myself alongside the women carrying their warm bread, I imagine my partner’s father’s beautifully braided Challah, golden brown, glazed and shining. A tradition his family kept and that he made his own. Every Jewish holiday, David and I would arrive at his parent’s house and Eugene’s challah would be welcoming us through the kitchen window.

As tonight is also the first night of Hanukah, I am reminded of the first night of Hanukah a few years ago. David’s parents invited us over for dinner. We were still in seminary and it was finals week. Struggling to manage our anxiety, we didn’t feel like we could leave our papers. So Joyce and Eugene brought Hanukkah to us. They brought the candles, the latkes, the brisket, and the challah and left it for us to share. As we lit the menorah, and set the table, our inner children filled with joy in what had been a pretty unbearable night. In the love of parents, we were reminded it’s here. In the bread, in the tradition, was also the community of David’s family for generations helping us to make it through.

About a year ago, Eugene, who is in his late 80s, had been going through some health issues with his heart and had been living with quite a lot of anxiety. He had gone into the hospital several times. When he thought things were going to be okay, something would go wrong again. The medication he was taking was causing awful side effects. He was becoming pretty deflated and was beginning to face his mortality. He installed a security system so if he were to die, David’s mom would feel safe. He got her a new car that he thought would last her the rest of her life. He put together a manual on all of his finances, what accounts and contacts we would need to know and made sure we knew were the manual was.

After living in this state for some time, Eugene decided to try undergoing a new procedure that carried with it a lot of unknowns and its own risks. In anticipation of the procedure, we went over to share a meal. As we were doing the dishes, I asked Eugene if he might be willing to teach me how to make challah once he recovered. I asked with some timidity, as I was not his blood relative. But I asked in case I should have children, that the tradition could be given to them. Surprised, Eugene lifted his eyebrows and said, “Oh. OK. Yes.”

As Eugene went into the hospital, the family was awaiting news, hoping for his well-being. When he was discharged, those who had already seen him, told me that Eugene had something he needed to tell me. Something they were not allowed to tell me. Curious, when Eugene walked through the door, I listened as he told the story of the dark night he endured. Left alone in his hospital room, anticipating the coming procedure, he was overcome by anxiety, unable to escape the worry, awaiting what would come.

And then Eugene remembered my request for him to teach me to make the challah. So he began to go through the recipe. He imagined how he would teach me, step by step. What I would need to understand about bread. What kind of flour he would start with, and what he would move to next. How he would teach me about what the dough should feel like. How to use my body to have enough strength to kneed the dough. Over and over, he practiced his pedagogy. The challah, and how he would pass it on, became his meditation.

He found well-being here — in the recipe he made over and over again that had become part of his body. In the bread, the family comes. The immediate family, and the communion of saints. They’re there in the bread rising. They’re there in the smell. Helping us to remember we can get through. We have what we need. It’s here.

As we relive the birth of Jesus, we are reliving our own stories. In our searching for well-being, we are given a Christmas story that meets us as real people.

We may not think we know the way, but as we return once more to this birth story, we find we do know the way, even if we don’t fully understand it yet. It is located in the body. Our own body, and the Body.

The prophets of old yelled down in their mischievous, firecracker, resolute voices, saying what you are looking for you have already been given. And this time, as we pray, “Show us the way to peace,” the loving response comes in the story of birth. It’s here. It’s here in the heart. It’s here, growing in the midst of the darkness. It’s here in the community, in the singing, in the gifts, in the storytelling, in the wonder, in the creating space, in the breaking bread. And it comes with vulnerability and fear. What you are looking for, it’s here.

Amen.

Jenna

Jenna Meyers, Associate-Pastor Elect

*A note: Eugene has since regained his strength, has been encouraging the next generation to practice making challah (under his supervision), and has just celebrated his 60th wedding anniversary with his beloved Joyce.

What a joy it has been to listen to, and read reflections by, members of our beloved community regarding their stories of giving. These stories have allowed me to recall memories that have influenced me to give and share with others. The one that is most prominent today comes from when I was in junior high.

Once upon a time, I came home from school to find the kitchen floor full of grocery shopping bags filled with food and my mother busily sorting items to be in each of the 13 bags.  When I asked: ‘what’s all this’ my mother said that she heard of a shelter in Seattle where mothers with children where living, but that they had no food.

A little back-story — my brother, mother and I had recently moved out of my step-father’s home (as my mother was getting a divorce) and she was working for minimum wage at a health food store. We were barely making it week-to-week, but we were healthy and happy.  Now, back to this memory.

I must have had a puzzled look on my face, knowing as I did, that we had very little income probably thinking my mother was nuts. She turned and said: “Jeff, we’ll be fine. We can eat cereal until my next pay-check (which we did) knowing with assurance that others will not be going hungry.” I’ve never forgotten this! This story of giving – so that others will not be hungry – is a defining story of my life and speaks to my understanding of stewardship. What is yours?

As we move into the Season of Advent — I ask invite you to recall those core stories of giving that have influenced you and made you who you are today. When we share with others, whether from our abundance or from our scarcity, we are allowing the Light of God to ‘get into us’ and shine from us. This is Advent: how the light gets in.

Blessings in the name of the Christ,

Jeff

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