2008 Lenten Devotional Book“Planted By A River”

We are a community planted by a river.

The baptismal river.

The river of life that flows through the streets of the city.

The river that nourishes all of creation.

The river of God.

The river that greets us as we enter our place of worship.

The river of our faithful imaginations.

We might imagine that our God is a river!

Along this river, many things grow.

(Pastor Hans Lee, OSLC Mission and Ministry Catalogue 2007-2008)

Dear Friends at Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church,

It is a pleasure to share with you a Lenten Devotional Booklet for 2008 – Planted by a River. This book for reflection and prayer is a collaborative effort by your sisters and brothers in the congregation. Members have taken time to reflect on water and Baptism and have generously shared these thoughts with you.

This internal publication is a helpful tool to connect people within the OSLC community and help each other grow more deeply in our connection to God during this prayerful time of the church year. There is one reading for each of the 40 days of Lent.

You are encouraged to use these readings as part of your devotional practice during this season of Lent with prayer and meditation for a few minutes each day. One such practice is “Lectio Divina” an ancient practice of pray-filled reading with four simple steps.

Lectio (Read) Read the meditation with an open heart.

Meditatio (Reflect) Wonder and ponder the reading.

Oratio (Respond) How does the reading touch your heart and life?

Contemplatio (Rest) Sit quietly with the meditation.

With deep gratitude, we recognize all who have shared contributions and reflections and helped to assemble this booklet. Thank you. We hope that this will be a helpful devotional gift this Lenten season.

Elaine K. Olson

Ministry of Community and Faith Formation

In the future, all will return to – all will converge in – God. In the meantime, we have some work to do. And our Lenten work is to take a look inward and to take a look around … and perhaps, even, to turn, and go in a new direction. But observing, reflecting, praying, discerning about our condition, the human condition, is something for this evening and even for this season of 40 days.

A friend recently loaned me a book of reflections on contemporary topics by the 20^th century mystic, Thomas Merton – “contemporary,” in this case, from more than 40 years ago yet still relevant for us. In this particular piece, Merton reflects on the human condition in light of the capture and trial of Adolf Eichmann in 1962. Adolf Eichmann was considered the “architect of the holocaust.” Following World War II, he escaped

Germany

and eventually ended up in

Argentina

, where he was captured.

Merton notes that Eichmann was determined by psychiatrists to be “perfectly sane.” He writes: “I do not doubt it at all, and that is precisely why I find it disturbing ... [Eichmann] was thoughtful, orderly, unimaginative. He had a profound respect for system, for law and order. He was obedient, loyal, a faithful officer of a great state…”

Merton points out a contradiction in the human condition: “We equate sanity with a sense of justice, with humaneness… And now it begins to dawn on us that it is precisely the sane ones who are the most dangerous.”

Merton concludes his writing with these words: “I am beginning to realize that ‘sanity’ is no longer a value or an end in itself… If [human beings] were a little less sane, a little more doubtful, a little more aware of [human] absurdities and contradictions, perhaps there might be a possibility of [our] survival. But if [human beings] are sane, too sane… perhaps we must say that in a society like ours the worst insanity is to be totally without anxiety, totally ‘sane’.”

So, when we look inward and outward, maybe we need to see more – much more – than how we measure up or how we fit within the status quo. Isn’t the status quo another word for sanity? Isn’t the satisfaction of congress with its CAFÉ standards of 35 mpg by 2020 “sane?” Isn’t our quiet compliance with one of the world’s most inefficient health care systems, that leaves 47 million people uninsured, “sane?”

If, then, we are to look inward this Lent, let’s be sure to check what’s there, to see that it’s a little bit askew, to see that we are not “on” but a little bit “off.” In doing this, we may be more acutely aware of our journey back to God.

We do the hard observation. But we also remember: yes, that we are “dust”… but also that we are God’s and in the life of God we shall remain.

I grew up in an extended family that vacationed together on the Carolina beaches. We spent two weeks together in a shabby oversized house on the beachfront. Me, my family, my cousins, aunts and uncles. Some thirty people living life in damp bathing suits, grabbing whatever beach towel seemed handiest at the moment. Sand between my toes and in my bed sheets. The sounds of my father and my uncles playing endless games of cards. The screen door smacked loudly whenever the kids chased in and out of the house. The smell of saltwater in the air. And always, the constant relentless sound of the ocean waves crashing on the shore.

This was an integral part of my life each summer from age eight well into my forties.

I sat with my father on wooden rocking chairs early in the morning and watched the sun rise over the Atlantic ocean. With my cousins, we built carefully constructed sandcastles that were always gone after the high tide scoured the beach clean. My aunts taught me to collect seashells of all sizes and shapes, and to dig for periwinkles at the water’s edge. We lived in the water, played in the water, and learned to respect the power of the riptides. I lay alone on a beach towel in the sand on moonless nights and marveled at the number of stars in the sky.

I learned the life-giving and life-risking nature of the ocean. I saw the fragile nature of life lived at the edge of the water. I heard the pounding constancy of the thundering waves. There is creative and redemptive power in that water. Even now, the water calls to me and draws me to return.

Isaiah 43:2a: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you…”

Water is fundamental for human beings. It is essential for life. Our bodies are about 65% water. Water is crucial for digestion, ridding the body of waste products, and regulating body temperature. Blood is mostly water (83%). So are lungs (90%) and brains (70%).

And yet, water can also be deadly. A person can drown in only a couple inches of water. Hyperhydration, also known as water poisoning, leads to death by disrupting brain function due to an imbalance of electrolytes through the consumption of a large amount of water in a short period of time.

Water thus has a dual character, capable of both sustaining life and causing death. How fitting, then, that we baptize with water, for baptism too has a dual character of life and death. Baptism grants us forgiveness of sins and gives eternal salvation; through baptism we die to sin and enter into Christ’s death and resurrection, destroying the power of death over us.

Baptism isn’t plain water, however. It is water administered in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. The power, love, mercy and grace of God are in, with and under the water. These weeks of Lent leading up to Holy Week and Easter, when we will commemorate Jesus’ death and resurrection, are an opportunity for self-examination. Where and how is God working in your life? What is your new life like?

Romans 6:3-4 “ Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.”

Lent is one of the times that the church calendar gently shepherds us to address our troubling emotions, including suffering and despair. When we deny the existence of these dark emotions, we also reject some people and parts of ourselves. For too long, our society has been unwilling to hear the stories of how veterans have been hurt by their exposure to war.

Michael Orban has just finished a memoir about his spiritual journey after his time in the infantry in

Vietnam

. Here he writes about the difference in his eyes after a year at war.

“I live in Wisconsin where ice fishing is popular. With an auger, a 10-inch hole is bored in the solid ice of a lake through which to fish. Envision a natural, annual fall event in these lakes: The warmer, surface waters exchange places with the colder, deeper waters, and the lake life follows the warmer waters to the lake bottom, leaving the surface waters freezing and empty of life. If one stands on the ice looking down into one of these holes, one can see and feel the dark, cold, lifeless depth below. It is the same to look into my eyes in the second photo (taken prior to leaving

Vietnam

), empty of life, cold and hollow, with the frozen ice around the hole. I had the sense that something very dear was leaving me when I saw that first dead Vietcong. Combat event after combat event had stolen more of my soul, until it now showed up empty, except for the darkness of that accumulation of every evil emotion.”

From Souled Out: A Memoir of War and Inner Peace, Michael S. Orban, www.michaelorban.com

The dirty dishwater that I carried out of our house – and dumped in the backyard.

We had no “running water” on our farm house when I grew up. I was the “runner.”

REA (Rural Electrification Association) extended service down the one-mile road that connected our farm to the county road.

“Carrying water” in and out was replaced by turning on a faucet – and opening the drain.

We are baptized with water which is often referred to as the river of life. On Sunday morning I look at our baptismal font with the river running through it and the green parament on the altar with a blue river and I think of the “River of Life.” Some rivers like lives are longer than others.

The source of our life or river begins at the baptismal font when we are baptized in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Looking back on life we find that there are times when “the river” is just a lazy river. Life is good. And there are times when we hit rapids. The water churns and nothing goes right. We become discouraged. We blame others. Yes, many times we even blame God.

But God doesn’t leave us. He shows us that He loves us and helps us to survive those rough waters. Before long the sun is shining and the river calms again.

We know that we will hit more rapids in the future but we also know that God will be with us and see us through them. God loves His children and will always be there for them. This gives us the will to look forward to tomorrow.

Thank you for parents that made me a member of your family through baptism. I know that as the river (my life) flows through life you will be there for me and you will never forsake me. Amen.

So my family is a fishing family who owns property near Grantsburg, Wisconsin and the St. Croix river. I always have found the fishing license requirements interesting on border waters. I own a Minnesota state fishing license but not a Wisconsin, for the guest license is just too expensive. So the St. Croix river is border water and that means that if you are fishing from a boat either a Minnesota or Wisconsin state license is fine but if you are going to fish from shore, you have to have a license from whatever side you are on, EXCEPT if you are standing in the water. Even if you are on the Wisconsin side of the river and you are fishing by standing in the water, your Minnesota License is fine. It’s rather silly, but those are the rules.

Standing in the St. Croix isn’t that silly or simple. There are lots of slippery rocks, shells and fast currents that can make it rather difficult to keep your self stable and not to fall in. But if you want to catch the legendary St. Croix river small-mouth bass and you don’t have a boat suitable for that river, you are going to get wet.

You know it is rather hard to write a Lenten devotional during Epiphany. Epiphany is about light and hope and baptism and fishing and all that you really like about being Christian. Lent is about sin and death and repentance and gloom and doom and all the stuff you don’t like about being Christian… or is it?

For me, Lent is more of an exciting time than a gloomy time. Change is happening! You are creating new habits. You are trying to make a new you and that is kind of cool. I see Lent kind of like fishing in the St. Croix. Lent is about wading in the sometimes turbulent waters of your baptism. You see, God gives you the Holy Spirit in Baptism! What a Gift from God! And this Holy Spirit has a lot in store for you, like it or not. In that rushing water there are fish to catch, but you can lose your balance and fall (did I tell you that those rocks are slippery? Well they are). And if you fall you are all wet.

And in Baptism you are all wet, all the time, for all to see. For as John Proclaims, “Be baptized and repent.” For when we fall into sin, we get wet, sometimes really wet and always wet enough to wash away our sin so that we can stand up and walk as a forgiven person. God is just too awesome sometimes don’t you think.

When in Cambridge, Massachusetts, T.S.Eliot lingered after Evensong in the Anglican monastery on the Charles River as was his custom, he knelt long after the last wisp of incense floated over Harvard University. The monks did not disturb him, but a pushy woman did. With her offspring in tow, she barged into the meditating writer, “Darling,” simpered the good woman, “I want you to meet the greatest writer in the English language, C.S. Lewis.” I think this happened in l930 when Eliot wrote Ash Wednesday because humility is in the poem.

The Kinship Reign is taught by the Jewish builder, Jesus. The “usual reign” is where we have life as usual. What a precise phrase. When Anglicans are at their best, they use precise language, especially in The Book of Common Prayer. Eliot goes deeper than a surface attack on an empire - British or American. He wants to rattle us where we live, the cozy comfort of life as usual. Why? Because its power has “vanished.” Anglicans and Lutherans come to Lent with this shared experience. It is the experience of AA, “our lives have become unmanageable.”

The desert is the terrain of the soul - a Lenten setting, a Wasteland, or a Hiroshima. Here, we are glad to be scattered as Lutherans and Anglicans. We do not harm each other much anymore. Eliot is sure “Neither division nor unity matter. . .” We have the desert we deserve. We breathe in. We breathe out. We taste the ashes of Lent. We are glad we are scattered because that is what is present. There is no “salvation by good works.” We sit in the quiet of the desert and breathe. It is good to be in the desert, despite “the usual reign” roaring in our ears.

Some good and sturdy Lutherans still live as though doing good is a measure of their Christianity and therefore of their own salvage ability. Yet, one of the best gifts Lutherans bring to the other branches of the church is the emphasis on faith. Jim Klobuchar in Pursued by Grace writes about his pastor, now the Lutheran Presiding Bishop, and what he taught him about faith. He and pastors like him say, “No. God’s forgiveness and blessing aren’t connected with doing good.” Lutheran preaching and singing get this right. Anglicans can be forgiven for missing the point, but how can Lutherans? Like Anglicans, even some good and sturdy Lutherans have memories that fade.

“Reality is a collective hunch,” according to Lily Tomlin. Reality for Eliot is a matter of whirling noise and silent Word. Eliot’s reality, and that of Franciscans and Anglicans generally is what has become known as Christo-centric. The Christ of Scotus is Prima Creatura. Christ is the only force behind creation of all that is not nothingness. We know “the instilled world” which clamors for our attention from the center of all that is not nothingness, “the silent Word.”

Lent is still, as still as the Boundary Waters before dawn. Our calling is to welcome the silent Word once more. “Redeem us,” prays Eliot. Whirling nonsense or silent sense may be an Either/Or matter to a Kierkegaard Lutheran. That may be too strong for an Anglican. Let’s settle for the Psalmist, “Be still and know that I am God.”

These were two of the many songs that my father and others heard Lutheran missionaries singing when they evangelized in our communities many years ago. Before the missionaries arrived, our people lived a very primitive life not knowing that there was a living GOD. They made sacrifices at the river side, tree trunks, and at the foot of mountains believing that there was something that could answer whatever the requests were.

But the missionaries came with a clear message – to forget your old ways of belief and follow Jesus, the Son of God who made heaven and earth. It may have sounded odd in the ears of many because they were already living happily and doing their own things.

The community chief, having heard the good news from the missionaries, gave them many free acres of land to build a mission. As a result the church and school were completed in 1957. My father, along with some friends, heard the good news and accepted Christ as their personal Savior. They were later baptized in the Lutheran Church. My father took each of his children, including me, to church and we were baptized at an early age.

What started as a town hall meeting when missionaries earlier arrived has now grown to a big community of faith with over 1,000 members. The message that started in my community has spread over my entire district. The good news is that other churches including Methodist, Catholics, etc. have all established in the same area.

Thanks be to God, the missionaries and my late father for carrying us to this river that is now flowing over all in my community and the district in the hearts of many people.

When I was 10, I used to float down the Minnehaha creek with a buddy of mine. Our meager vehicles were two oversized (at least they seemed oversized to us) tire tubes.

We would spend the entire day just floating, laughing, and soaking in the rays. Some stretches of the creek would be canopied by over hanging trees, other parts completely exposed. Occasionally there would be jetting rocks that would bruise our backsides, but we would always press on because at the end of the creek we would arrive at our destination, Dairy Queen.

Reflecting back on those wonderfully lazy summer days, I find myself a little wiser, and with a sweet tooth for a good Dilly Bar. I also think how lucky I was that I lived in an environment where I could just be a kid.

Every day there are children in the

United States

growing up in environments where they can’t be kids. One example that comes to mind is a tiny eight-year-old boy I knew a while back coincidentally named “Big Man.” Big Man would leave his house at 8:00 a.m. only to return at 10:00 p.m. He would spend his days walking the streets, scrounging for food and friends.

Big Man was a tough kid with scratches all over his face, nappy hair, and a huge grin. We quickly became friends because of our affinity for swinging, playing basketball, and looking for bugs.

The life-long affirmation of my baptism is to meet people from all walks of life and exchange our gifts. This often involves crossing economic, racial, and generational lines. It’s not safe, and rarely easy, but always worth it.

One of my favorite features of a river is a waterfall. Just ask my husband Jim, I'm always interested in a trip/hike/trek to experience another one.

As I pondered rivers and baptism, I kept returning to the image of a waterfall...

“Let me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something Actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness.

The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are not those of the engineer.

I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world. The talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks, I am going to listen.”

Rondi and Philip Reitan (like me, former members of Central Lutheran Church) recently left the ELCA because of its continued discriminatory policies against gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people. Here’s Rondi speaking of their son Jake’s baptism:

We brought our son, Jacob Philip Reitan, to Messiah Lutheran Church [Mankato]. He was baptized in water from the Jordan River brought by his grandparents from the Holy Land. His Uncle Mark, our pastor, baptized him. Jacob was surrounded by a huge family that loved him.

"Jacob Philip, child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever."

Do you know how many times I have said that in my mind these last years? Forever means this promise is always with my son. But the ELCA has chosen to take part of that promise away from Jacob. They have said he is not like the other "children of God" -- he is different. He doesn't quite measure up. Jacob is gay.

As Philip and I look at the Baptismal Service as printed in our hymnal we don't see any fine print and we don't see any asterisks that say if your child discovers he is gay we will have to limit his participation in God's house. We cannot find any place that says homosexuals are a step lower than the Children of God.

The congregation, for the Church, … made promises that Sunday in March 19 years ago. They welcomed Jacob into the Lord's family. They received him as a "fellow member of the body of Christ, child of the same heavenly Father, and a worker with us in the kingdom of God." They have not kept that promise. Jacob is not viewed as a fellow member of the body of Christ in the same way as his brothers and sisters are accepted. He cannot be a worker in the kingdom of God in the same way they can. That is a promise broken by the Church.

All distinctions are washed away in the waters of Baptism. It is time for the ELCA to wash away all distinctions and truly welcome the gay community into the full and complete fellowship of the Church.

It was the middle of the summer in 2002 and it was hot, very hot. The city was Kherson and we were on the banks of the river, waiting. We parked under the one lone tree and the wind would blow dust in the air. It was not fancy, just a place where the locals gathered to cool off. We were waiting with hope, with the love of holding us, and in anticipation of a birth. Kherson is a city in southern

Ukraine

The journey was Denis’s birth story with a big snag. The day prior to our arrival in Kiev, the adoption authority had been audited by their superiors in response to a complaint that too many children under two years of age were being adopted out to American families and not to the families from other countries. Denis was 14 months old. As a result the authorization to go to Yalta and adopt Denis was denied. What was authorized was a visit to two orphanages in Kherson, which, coincidently, were enroute to Yalta. After an overnight drive of ten hours, we arrived in Kherson at 6 AM. Upon visiting the orphanages and thinking about Liaz at home, the children open to me to adopt were not a good fit for our family. I asked our Ukrainian adoption coordinators to fax a message that I could not go forward with an adoption from orphanages in Kherson and to request an authorization to proceed to Yalta to adopt Denis.

So, there we were at the river waiting, waiting for word, breathing in hope, and believing that God’s love would hold us no matter what the authorities in Kiev proclaimed. At 5 PM we left the river and went to the post office where we obtained a fax authorizing us to proceed to Yalta and to adopt Denis.

The river was there and birth and love and hope and a breeze and sustenance and baptism were all proclaimed.

In January of 2007, we were flying westward from Buenos Aires,

Argentina

towards the city of Mendoza in the foothills of the Andes. It was a clear summer day and as we were making our final approach into Mendoza the harsh desert-like landscape turned from brown to bright green. Below us were thousands of acres of cropland, mostly vineyards. It was amazing.

More amazing still was riding into Mendoza City and seeing the tree lined streets and boulevards. The city looked like Minneapolis before Dutch elm disease – and this in the middle of a desert.

The source of this oasis is the glacial waters from the high Andes funneled by many tributaries into the Mendoza River. From the river, the water is then distributed throughout the city and countryside via an intricate system of irrigation channels. It is an amazing feat of engineering that has resulted in making Mendoza one of the most prosperous regions in the country.

The most amazing part of the story is that the irrigation system is virtually the same as it was when developed by the Incas over 600 years ago – well before the arrival of the Europeans. The gift of water from the Andes was carefully guided, directed and conserved over the centuries and has given life and sustenance to the generations that followed.

Prayer: “Creator God, I give thanks for the life-giving water of baptism and for the many people, in my lifetime and before, who provided guidance and direction, enabling me to grow and thrive in your Grace.”

Last March, my dear mother died at the age of 92. She spent the last 12 years in Minneapolis living with Alzheimer’s disease. But for 80 years she lived in the small town of Atwood, Kansas where she was born, raised, married, and raised her family.

One of the things she loved about Atwood was the small lake at the edge of town. She walked around it every day. She called it her beloved lake and even when it dried up it was still her beloved lake.

The last time we walked the lake together she asked me “Do you know why I love this lake? It brought people together to share and to enjoy all of the things you can do at a lake. It built a spirit of unity and community.”

She continued “It gave life to me, too – I found God here. Each day when I walked, I would give thanks for the blessings God has given me. I would ask forgiveness for my misdeeds, I would remember all my loved ones and all of the needs of this old world. I would give them all to God and would walk home with a heart full of gratitude. Yes, she is my beloved lake.”

She requested that, when she was to be buried, the hearse would take her around the lake one last time. We did that for her.

Prayer: “Jesus, be with us as we walk this journey of Lent. May our hearts be open in all of the ways we are called to grow in your love.”

Hidden in the baptism of Jesus is the mystery of the remission of sin and the mystery of being born of water and the Spirit. If we ignore this baptism of Jesus and do not believe in it, then we ourselves could betray the will of God and forsake our own salvation.

In the water we become a child of the Most High King. As we turn our hearts to the Son, He alone will be the One who will fulfill our every dream.

The baptism of the Holy Spirit is God’s way of empowering us to manifest His love to His church and to cleanse us and make us Holy. We need, therefore, to acknowledge that love is necessary for the proper use of the gift, The Bible says “Faith works by love” (Gal. 5:6), “Love edifies others” (1 Cor. 8:1).

God has shown His love for us by giving us faith to believe in, trust in, cling to and rely on Jesus. We can repent of anything that will hold us back from experiencing and walking in His fullness through the baptism of the Holy Spirit. We ask him for it and receive it. “Freely it has been given to you, now freely give.” (Matt. 10:8)

In this life we’re not going to find solace in the plastic arms of shimmering idols on our television or computer screen. No single person holds what we want. No human being owns it, although we know some people who seem to have it. No one sees the true impact through foolish eyes. We’re all foolish sometimes. We can stop, take a step back and look at our position on the mountain. Are we really as high as we think we are or are we simply passing through another bed of clouds on our ascent to heightened awareness?

On your naming day, your parents and godparents present you for baptism confident in God’s promise that through baptism we are set free from sin and death - reborn as children of God.

And we respond with a promise to share with you the abundance of the love of God in Christ Jesus through the community of faith.

We gather around the water, hearing again the stories of God’s salvation through the waters - the flood, the Red Sea, baptism in the

Jordan

, the coming of the Holy Spirit. The water splashes around us as we all recall our own dip in the holy waters.

There is crying, open eyes of surprise as the waters splash down on your heads - the pastor chanting "in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit" - God's own chant calling you God’s own.

You are sealed with the cross of Christ - a sign of the Holy Spirit, naming you “God’s precious child” forever. And a brilliant light shines forth for the world to see- that in your baptism you now proclaim salvation to all creation.

“We welcome you into the body of Christ and into the mission we share: join us in giving thanks and praise to God and bearing God’s creative and redeeming word to all the world.”

And on this day, and always, I remember God’s claiming you in baptism, and thank God for you.

We have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. (Romans 6:4 (NRSV).

Lent is a somber and subdued time. The air is permeated with a strange uneasiness that tears at the heart and reminds Christians of a shameful event in the history of the world.

Lent can be a time of deep regeneration, spiritual revival, and feelings of awe as we pause to reflect on our Lord’s final days. Ash Wednesday has passed; the dark day of good Friday will soon be at hand.

In an attempt to identify with Jesus, some Christians give up a favorite food or activity during Lent. Others increase and deepen their prayers. Some work to help the homeless. In today’s fast-paced, frantic world, the season of Lent may bring a measure of welcome solace.

The older I get, the more I value the custom of being humble during Lent. As I go about my daily duties, disturbing thoughts of Jesus’ agony come to mind. I can almost feel the intensity as time moves relentlessly to the final act. I know the outcome; I am aware of the harsh circumstances of Jesus’ death. But I reach forward to the incredible ending: the marvelous glory of Easter.

Prayer: “Forgiving God, thank you for Jesus. Help us remain true to his teachings and his compassion forever. Amen.”

On Saturday it poured down rain, but Sunday dawned bright and sunny. In the later afternoon we went for a boat ride which inspired this poem.

The following is a song by a local singer/ songwriter we enjoy named Peter Mayer. The lyrics are especially pertinent to the theme of this devotional. I recommend finding a way to hear this song, either live or on Peter Mayer’s album, Midwinter, or his website www.petermayer.net.

In the ever-shifting water of the river of this life
I was swimming, seeking comfort; I was wrestling waves to find
A boulder I could cling to, a stone to hold me fast
Where I might let the fretful water of this river ‘round me pass

And so I found an anchor, a blessed resting place
A trusty rock I called my savior, for there I would be safe
From the river and its dangers, and I proclaimed my rock divine
And I prayed to it “protect me” and the rock replied

God is a river, not just a stone
God is a wild, raging rapids
And a slow, meandering flow
God is a deep and narrow passage
And a peaceful, sandy shoal
God is the river, swimmer
So let go

Still I clung to my rock tightly with conviction in my arms
Never looking at the stream to keep my mind from thoughts of harm
But the river kept on coming, kept on tugging at my legs
Till at last my fingers faltered, and I was swept away

So I’m going with the flow now, these relentless twists and bends
Acclimating to the motion, and a sense of being led
And this river’s like my body now, it carries me along
Through the ever-changing scenes and by the rocks that sing this song

Clinging to God as our rock is much easier in these turbulent times than thinking of God as a raging river. But by clinging to God as a rock we miss the gifts God brings to us as a river of life that can, at times, seem life threatening. Next time you walk into our sanctuary, notice that our Baptismal Font is both Rock and River.

We’re gathered by the river here at the corner of 24^th and Chicago in a city and a neighborhood with an incredibly rich mixture of cultures and colors, with the music of tongues from many tribes, with memories of ancestors from so many places, with so many stories of how we’ve come to be in this place. In spite of our differences, however, we’ve chosen to be part of this community, this “way station” along the river.

The windows of Our Savior’s look directly out upon the streets of a city where there are folks with a huge variety of gifts and needs. Some of us along the river need shelter; some of us need to learn the language necessary to get a job and navigate the English-speaking world. Some of us need to talk about our lives in a place where we can hear words of compassion and forgiveness. Some of us need a place to be honest with each other about whether or not we fit here, in a Christian gathering place, about what it means to call ourselves Lutheran, let alone Christian, in this complicated 21^st century moment in time.

We “dwellers by the river” differ from each other in all kinds of ways on the surface, but there are deeper ways in which we are all in the same boat. We are all in need of the same basic essentials, which sustain and redeem us: the constant reminder of the waters of baptism as we pass the font on our way into worship, the repeated proclamation of grace and forgiveness when we gather on Sunday mornings; the companionship of fellow-travelers with whom we can question, pray, sing and break bread, in celebration of both the ordinary and extraordinary moments that make up our life together in this corner of the universe.

“The river of life is runnin’ through the city, flowin’ down Main Street from the throne of God. The tree of life is on each side of the river. The leaves of that tree, they heal the world. Let us join together in the new creation, wade in the water that brings new birth. Stand in the light that is given to the nations. Ushering salvation to the ends of the earth.”

We have been singing this song in choir this year – it’s one of my favorites – for the words and the tune. When I sing this, I have many visuals of different rivers, in different places. Most every day I head south along the River Road to downtown Minneapolis. Right now, the river steams in the cold and ice has formed on it, and the trees along the river are bare. Come spring, the trees will be budding and the river will be rushing to St Anthony Falls. It sparkles in the bright sun of summer and green is the color. Fall brings beautiful colors and the river reflects the beauty. It’s a peaceful way to start my mornings. I’ve been at the headwaters of the Mississippi, so narrow you can walk across it, and have been by it as far south as St Louis – such a vital part of the communities it flows through. I see the Upper Iowa as it flows through Decorah and the St Croix as it flows between Minnesota and Wisconsin. Finally, I see the river of our baptismal font. The river that greets us every Sunday at worship, the river where children dip their fingers, where we become children of God, where we are promised new birth. We are planted by that river and God will water us so we can grow in our faith and will keep us strong when the waters rage.

It was my third year in the ministry. We lived in a small town in northern Minnesota. The phone rang. A young woman asked: “Can you come to our farm? My parents grew up in one of your churches but now are some distance away. Mother is near death of cancer and wants to receive communion.” I said: “Yes.”

Upon arrival we visited and then I prepared for the communion service, “Would all take communion together?” They agreed, but immediately the husband withdrew to a neighboring room, sat down, turned his back to us and looked at the floor.

One of the daughters motioned for me to follow her outside, where she said: “My dad’s father was an atheist and would not allow him to be baptized. He attended church with his mother, but could never fully participate.”

I ask: “Does he want to be baptized?” He does! She fills a large pan with water. We gather in the yard. We visit about baptism. Finally, the words and the water: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

Next, the family gathers together around the communion table for the first time.

I drive home wondering: “Why such a long separation? Why almost a whole lifetime? Does it have to be so hard?”

I love living across the street from the longest river in North America, a river that begins in our state. There’s a stretch along the West River Road, just across from the supernatural Weisman, that enchants me. On really cold mornings, I look down the banks to what looks like a grand stage, lit from above, with foggy mist sweeping a floor of white ice which frames pools of black water. I’m outside, looking at the deep, wide river. On sunny mornings, facing south, I’m blinded by reflections. I’m outside, squinting.

I love the river design of our baptismal font at Our Saviour’s. A waterfall welcomes us to worship. Our church is inviting. There’s warmth here—from our good-hearted people and our hard-working furnace! Our church building carves a space on Chicago Avenue that offers refuge and encourages community. But our building won’t let us forget what is outside. From a pew on the grotto side of the sanctuary, we see people, busses, and pets on the sidewalks and street while we sing, pray and listen. Tall grass blows in the wind outside the cut-out windows behind the altar. It’s comfortable inside, but at OSLC I think we’re restless with this in-side comfort. Here, the opposites—in and out—make up the whole. The welcoming of baptism, the inside-ness of it, puts into relief the outside-ness. Our lives take place in between these two spots. We live between the misty, obscure as well as in the blinding light.

Our boy Theron was baptized during the Easter vigil, in keeping with a tradition of the early Christian church. He wore a white outfit, another ancient practice, to symbolize his new life in Christ. Although those early baptized were adults, the Easter vigil has a lot to recommend it for a child’s eyes.

The texts for the vigil are some Bible favorites, like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace; the Israelites escaping Pharoah’s army, and the dry bones that come to life with a little prophesying. The service also has food for the senses: trickling water, flames, sometimes a sprinkling from a wet branch, perhaps incense, and at Our Saviour’s, bells. It’s a night in the church year when we walk on the mysterious side of our faith, with strange images and raw tales of might and rebirth.

I hope Theron will ask us about these stories and sights and sounds, and I’ll try not to say “Go ask your daddy.” I hope we’ll puzzle over them together, and then Theron and all the other kids around us, still a little damp from their own baptisms, will shed some light for us who might be feeling a bit dried out.

As I navigate my spiritual journey through un-chartered waters of uncertain tomorrows, my faith emboldens me with courage-charged spirit to conquer my fears and it gladdens my heart. It is assuredly comforting to know that the life-giving power of water has a redeeming promise to all whom seeks it.

The river continues to renew me with hope for better things to come. It restores my faith when day to day struggle and despair makes me grow faint. Certainly, it does calm and refresh my mind body and spirit. These same waters have the ability to reflect light into darkness. It also casts visual images, unlike a mirror which is created artificially. God’s wondrous creation – water – flows from him through us into the world around us, perpetually as we share our gifts and talents.

Water actively has many roles. Here are a few visual reflections that come to my thoughts:

Almighty God: We thank you that you have… granted this child new birth in baptism and received her as your child and heir to your kingdom. (from baptismal service, Lutheran Book of Worship)

When Elisabeth was born, it was immediately evident that she faced severe challenges. She nearly died; some would say she should have been allowed to. Nevertheless, after a dramatic transfer to an ICU in St. Paul’s Children’s Hospital, followed by several days in an incubator and weeks in the hospital, we carried home the small, fragile package that was our daughter. Some months later she was baptized.

A few weeks ago we celebrated her thirtieth birthday, rejoiced and celebrated, complete with her favorite dessert: key lime pie. She could have eaten it by herself, but we fed it to her, so most of the pie got into her mouth instead of on her face, clothing or the floor. It is like that with most of what she does and is. She walks, but not steadily, and always wants a hand to hold. Medication keeps her seizures down to occasional occurrences, and surgery has limited her hydrocephalus. She understands little and says nothing beyond MaaaMah with her IQ of 12. That is IQ, not age of development.

Some well-intentioned people have told us that if we just prayed with real faith, God would work a miracle. We have prayed like that, but she is still profoundly retarded and disabled. Yet, to be sure, God has worked a miracle.

By some worldly standards she could be seen as worthless. Not so many years ago families in our culture would have kept her hidden from the public, perhaps not admitting to her existence. But we are people of faith, and we trust the promises of Easter and of baptism. Elisabeth is a child of God, an heir to all the riches of heaven. And we are glad she wants to hold our hand on the journey.

I find myself pretty fluid these days. At any given moment, I might be the most spiritual person you encounter. More often than not, I feel pretty blasphemous. I feel mostly like the willow tree outside my front door.

Anyone who has spent any amount of time around me knows I have a passion for planting, and occasionally tending to, growing things. A little over two years ago, Michael and I planted a Siberian willow near our front door. It's a dwarf breed, planted at the southwest corner of our house to block the late afternoon summer sun. I had my doubts about it actually thriving.

But it is about the only item in our yard that actually likes the dense, dense, dense clay soil of our Como Park neighborhood. Roses? They've died by the half-dozens. As have countless other endeavors, gone to my prairie-garden in the sky. Each spring, I walk around our modest yard muttering (none too charitably) about what did and what did not survive the impenetrable winter density of our cold steel earth. The balance usually isn't what I hope for in the formative months of March and April. Michael refers to this entire check-up as my annual "Pave the Front Yard Day," which is generally what I threaten to do by the end of my tour.

As trees go, willows are pretty unfussy. And this variety seems to need even less than most. The amazing thing about willows is their ability to withstand both the abundance and dearth of water. I am told that Como Park has a fairly high water table. Maybe this explains the prolific nature of our single tree. I don't see a river, or water source. Yet the willow is proof that it must be there, someplace.

This willow, which is not the droopy-branch variety, has claimed a commanding presence, with branches rudely poking into the passage between houses, and assaulting the postal carrier regularly. This is the part I like. Not that the mailman deserves a more difficult job than he already has, but the tree has simply taken over-in spite of us.

When I'm feeling as blasphemous as I am apt to get at this time of year, I tend to draw from the unseen river, or high water table, of this faith community. Like our willow tree, I am nourished unseen, and in the most subtle ways, even when the river isn't visible.

I have two favorite songs about rivers. The first song is from the musical, Showboat. It is “Ol’ Man River,” made famous by Paul Robeson. It goes like this:

The second song that I like about rivers is, “River of Life,” by L. Casebolt and Betty Pulkingham. It goes like this:

The phrase “born again” had taken on a relatively negative feeling in my head. It stemmed from a couple of years ago when the phrase was used a lot by people who were reforming to Christianity. Unfortunately it seems that all the people I met or heard that were “born again” still did not act very Christian. I quickly became cynical of the phrase and judgmental of those who used it.

Recently at choir rehearsal we were singing a baptismal hymn that used the phrase “born again.” Huh? There is a hymn in our wonderful new worship book that used “that” phrase. Maybe, my judgment and cynicisms was not very well grounded. So I thought about it. I thought briefly of the act of baptism, and being born into God’s family, welcomed into the world that is bigger and brighter than our planet, born again into a life with Christ.

Then I thought longer and harder about how I am born again. I am born again every time I walk passed our baptismal font. Every Wednesday night I am renewed when I join a group of wonderful people in singing and fellowship. Many times I walk in discouraged and negative from a difficult day but I leave full of energy and ready for the next day. On Sundays, I often come in frazzled from rushing to get there on time and being prepared for Sunday school or just plain tired from a non-stop schedule. I always leave with a smile and determination to face another daunting week. Having a life filled with the remembrance of God’s love in baptism allows me to be born over and over again.

Q: Why do you think the author used the sun, clouds and other things in the sky?

A: “…that rainbow’s a sign that God is with you, and God is kind and he’ll never let you go.”

I was baptized at Our Saviour’s many years ago. On that November Sunday, my sister Lucy and Malcom Borgendale (one of Lydia Borgendale’s sons) were also baptized. That was the day I consider we were “planted by a river.” My faith has been nourished here at Our Saviour’s and continues to grow.

I love to see people baptized here at Our Saviour’s both infants and adults. This shows new growth in our church. At the baptismal service we often end by singing the hymn, “This Little Light of Mine.” This is one of my favorite hymns and it tells us that we should let our faith “shine”.

I feel I was indeed “planted by a river” on the day I was baptized. I hope my life is evidence of my faith. Let us celebrate our faith in Christ and our baptism. Amen.

Years of low moisture have taken a toll on Minnesota’s northern boundary lakes. One I know well was down nearly a foot last summer, exposing shoreline that I usually saw, but through crystal clear water, not in dry hot air. It brought rocks, once just below the surface out into view. It changed landings for our canoes. Trees along the edge still clung on, roots reaching out, holding on. Much of the inland underbrush gave up, choosing dormancy as the survival tool. Waiting.

I hold on to this image in my dry times when the baptismal river is not overflowing with blessings. When stresses and challenges push me into a spiritual dormancy. And yet, I remember the shoreline, the water’s edge, the living edge – feeding the trees and plants, and so I return. I plant myself back at the baptismal river and reach into that powerful, loving affirmation – You are God’s child! I can feel the welling of hope within me.

Bring me O God, in times of spiritual drought, back to the baptismal river and bathe me in your love.

"Willow Creek winds through the land on which Mary grew up. She owns that portion of the land now and treasures it more than ever."

Water. I love water. Hot water in my mug on a cold evening. Cold water in my glass on a hot, humid afternoon. A cool shower after gardening in the sun. These are just a few of many water experiences, all of which I welcome at the right time, in the right amounts, at the right temperature–that is, in the proper balance. Water can also be a dangerous thing. Too much water, in the form of a flood, or a lake, or even a bath tub, can become a drowning place. Water that is too hot or too cold can damage our tender skin, burn the tongue, freeze one who is exposed just a little too long. Even the water of baptism is experienced differently by those infants who sleep through the pastor's sprinkling, or who may resist with howling and struggling. (I am told that, when, at the age of two, I was baptized, I yelled, "Cut that out!") And those adult believers, who are baptized by immersion–well, I would guess that is a scary thing, for young or old, and a lot depends upon the confidence of the baptized that the baptizer will support her while she is under water, and will lift her out of the water before she runs out of breath and takes in a dangerous snoot full of that life giving, death threatening water!

Baptism is a lived metaphor for life in relationship with God and the world. The water that frightens us during the moments of our baptism, is the same water that we require daily for our very lives. We have seen what happens to living things in floods and in droughts. Life is so fragile; it can be lost in an instant. It is, however, more likely that our lives will be compromised, over the years, by our aging, or by circumstances that force us to live, somehow, out of balance. But we are called to live, and to find a balance between need and excess–and this is no small matter, given all the choices we have. Jesus said, "I came that you might have life, and have it abundantly." He did not say, " I came that you might have an abundance of stuff–or success, or amazing talents.” He did say, "I want you to live your life fully–in the midst of all the blessings and challenges that surround you. And I will be with you, to help you with the balance part.

Somewhere along the line I have noticed that my life has gone better with God's help in the balance department. I have had Parkinson's disease for 20 years. Talk about balance! Falling, tripping, stooping, loping sideways–I had to learn to live, literally, out of balance. This required giving up pride in my appearance. I had to balance my will to go to work with the understanding that I might fall down, or up, the stairs. Or into a snowbank. I would spill and have trouble cutting up my food. My vocal cords would seize up during a sermon. I had to give up distributing the bread at holy communion because I couldn't pick up the wafers. (This is the only loss I have cried about. And I have only slopped the wine all over myself twice!)

I recently underwent brain surgery for Parkinsons that made it possible to get along on 1/3 of the medication I was taking. I can stand up straighter. I swing my arms when I walk. My voice is stronger. My tremors have stopped. It seemed quite miraculous–and still does. But I realize that all of my life has been filled with blessing. What I had given up was nothing compared to what I had gained in understanding and compassion for others, as well as for myself! No one does ungainly things on purpose! I am still clumsy. I forget things. But people move out of my way when they see me lurching toward them. They remind me when I forget. And every day I am reminded that I am loved, by God and by those around me; I am forgiven for my shortcomings, by God and by those who care for me; my future is open to possibilities that I cannot even fathom. All of this, and I am not even perfect–just alive and hopeful, and that is enough for me.

“...to the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life.”

Namibia

is a very dry country. In a country the size of Texas and Louisiana combined, there are no rivers within the country’s borders that flow year-round. Running along the entire Atlantic coast, the Namib desert is one of the driest places on earth, with large areas receiving no rain in a normal year. Life--plant and animal--revolves around the search for and use of water. The leaves of the trees in the thornveld are shiny and small--often smaller than the needles that guard them--limiting the water lost to evaporation in the hot desert sun. Animals of all types follow the seasonal rains, congregating near waterholes as the dry season comes to an end.

But not all animals can travel daily to the scattered waterholes. One of these, the doublebanded sandgrouse, has evolved a unique water transport system for its young. After drinking its fill, the adult bird steps into the waterhole and gathers life giving water into its breast feathers. After returning to its young, miles away, it shares the water needed for the young chicks to thrive and grow. Having learned this gift, the following year, the new adult sandgrouse will share the water from its breast feathers with their young.

How does God share life giving water with us? First and foremost God endowed our earth with abundant amounts of water. Due to our poor stewardship of this vital resource, many people struggle to find life sustaining water on a daily basis. (Not so in

Namibia

, where the post-apartheid government pipes safe drinking water to even the poorest townships.) Through the life of Jesus, God provided us a guide in how we can share this gift of life with each other. Jesus not only calls forth “the spring of the water of life” deep within each of us, but he shows us how we can minister to our neighbor. Jesus commanded us to be both wise and just stewards of the resources God provides us. Jesus taught us that if we try to hoard our gifts, we are doomed to wander through life dry and thirsty. But if like the doublebanded sandgrouse we shake loose our tightly clutched breast feathers and tap into the water of life, God will liberate both our own lives and those of neighbors far and near.

When I think about walking wet I think about backpacking. I loved the idea of hiking where no cars could go. In the Appalachian foothills of southern Ohio and Indiana, there was much to explore. I have no pictures, but I have snapshots in my mind, of packing my pack, walking down trails, seeing the sun through the trees, and that celebratory dinner at the end of the day, when you knew you accomplished something cool. I was always amazed at how good chicken ala king, out of a pouch, could taste. Of all my friends from my youth, those are the ones who are pictured in my mind. We had fun together; we had profound talks together; we accomplished a walk together.

And I remember the rain. I don’t think I ever backpacked when it didn’t rain. Sometimes the rain was a gentle rain. It was cool and refreshing, especially on a hot, muggy summer day. We wouldn’t even bother to put on our rain ponchos. And sometimes the rain was a drag. It pelted our faces; it soaked us through and through. When you decided to wear the poncho, it added to the heat and humidity, and the backpack became heavier. Those were the times when I wondered why I ever thought backpacking was fun. Each time I would make a mental note to not sign up for that next trip.

When I think of walking wet, I think of backpacking through southern Ohio and Indiana. I think of water dripping everywhere and knowing, more than any other time that I was fully alive. I think life can be a lot like backpacking. Some moments are fun and others are not so much. Some moments are gentle and cool, while others are pelting and soaking. But God is there, walking with us; and the love of God, whose name is Jesus, is constant.

As you may know, much of Minnesota’s eastern border is made by rivers: the St. Croix and the Mississippi. So if you are coming or going from Minnesota by car, you may need a bridge. When you cross a bridge into and out of Minnesota there is usually a sign saying “Welcome to Wisconsin” or “Thanks for visiting Minnesota.” Sometimes when I am on a bridge over a river, I like to look down and see the boats going underneath and wonder if the fishing boats are catching anything.

Working at Augsburg College and living in northeast Minneapolis, I get to see where the 35W bridge was and soon will be twice a day. I also see the other bridges that are on either side of it. The 19^th, 3^rd, Stone Arch, Washington Avenue, Hennepin Avenue and Bridge 9. I find that it is sometimes easy to focus on the gapping hole that the missing 35W bridge created and not see the others that surround it. It is easy to focus on what is missing and not what we have.

I wonder sometimes what life would be like without bridges. I bet it would be horrible, like trying to cross the rocky St. Croix river, near Grantsburg, Wisconsin, on foot with the spring rain that brings a strong, spring current. Impossible, I could imagine. Very wet for sure.

Thank God for bridges…really. I Thank God for bridges, because I don’t like being wet. I really don’t like being wet. I know that this is strange, but I don’t even like taking showers (which I do, daily… or even twice a day when I workout.). Wet can make you cold, hot, slippery, sticky, stinky and just miserable. I thank God for bridges. I hope you do, too. I cross the 3^rd Avenue bridge over the Mississippi to come to Our Saviour’s every Sunday. It lifts me over the water with a gentle arch, lifting me from one side to the other.

As I think of my time at Our Saviour’s, which has only been a few months, I feel that the Lord has used this church as a bridge that has connected me to God and us to the community so that I can live out the call to love God and to love neighbor.

So this Lent, what bridges is God using to connect you to God? What bridges is God using to connect you to those around you? For our Lord is a bridge builder.

I love this poem of Wendell Berry’s that describes for me the peace that I find in nature, wilderness and the wild. Our baptismal waters provide this kind of freedom, which removes our despair, fear and worry, places us beside God’s still water, where we can float in the grace of God for the world, and be free.

2008 Lenten Devotional Book
“Planted By A River”

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“Planted By A River”