I first heard the term “compassion fatigue” in 1985, used to explain why giving to many disaster relief causes had slowed. That particular year there had been a series of natural disasters around the world: two earthquakes (on consecutive days) in Mexico killed 8,000 people; a cyclone in Bangladesh killed up to 13,000; and a volcanic eruption in Columbia killed 25,000. A climate catastrophe had caused a 3-year drought in Ethiopia, resulting in a famine that killed upwards of 300,000 and displaced nearly 3 million. The AIDS crisis in the U.S. reached a startling number of infections and deaths. In the Philippines the corrupt government was failing and a coup was imminent.

As people watched the news every night, they saw need after need after need, and their mailboxes filled with requests for aid from many good agencies, but those pleas for help turned into a cacophony that was sometimes confusing and simply wore many people out.

Since then I’ve heard the term used often, particularly lately in terms of caregiving. Whether it’s a person caring for a loved one suffering from physical or mental illness, or a health care worker who has been worn down by the pandemic (and people’s reactions to it), compassion fatigue is real and incredibly difficult.

In one of the gospel stories for this week, I see compassion fatigue behind the scenes.

Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. In these lay many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed. One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be made well?’ The sick man answered him, ‘Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Stand up, take your mat and walk.’ At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk. [from John 5]

The man had been sick for 38 years.

Thirty. Eight.

Thirty-eight years earlier, he probably had people who cared about him who helped him get to the water, who took him to a healer, who listened to him describe his pain. Five years after that, likely some had drifted away. At twenty years, surely some of those people had died. As they grew older, they could no longer physically handle him. Eventually, his needs became so great that there was not a person who could take care of him daily. No matter how much people loved him, they must have been worn out with caregiving. Someone helped him get to the Sheep Gate that day (he was unable to walk), but then left—perhaps to go to work, or to just have a break and renew.  

Jesus helped and healed the man who was, perhaps, even exhausted by his own limitations, after so many years of trying to get well.

Caregiving will wear you out, no matter how much you love the person(s) you care for, no matter how dedicated you are to the work of healing. Sooner or later, you have to stop and renew.

Caring even wore Jesus out from time to time and he had to get away from the crowds to renew. Because of his self-care when he needed it, Jesus was able to step in on this day and help someone whose caregivers were tired.

If you are struggling in your care for others, it’s a sign that you need to take care of yourself. You can only be effective in caregiving for someone else if you are paying attention to your own needs as well.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2022

Jesus is teaching and he’s interrupted by a question that every single faith leader hears at one time or another: How can a good God allow these horrible events?

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, ‘Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.’ [Luke 13:1-5]

O God, why are innocent Ukrainians—who are simply trying to live their lives—being killed by a strongman who wants more real estate and is willing to take it at any cost? Why was a woman there killed by direct fire as she was driving food to an animal shelter? Why must children flee to another country for safety, or huddle in an abandoned subway station? We see photos of them sleeping and wonder what are their nightmares this night, every night, and perhaps for the rest of their lives if they survive. Why are Russian missiles destroying beautiful buildings, homes, green spaces, basic services? What will happen to those who are displaced? Why are protesting Russians being arrested and imprisoned simply because a corrupt government cannot bear for light to shine on injustice?

And O God, what about victims of recent tornados, floods, or fire? What of those who are hurt or killed in accidents?

What did any of these individuals do wrong to deserve death at the hand of a tyrant or due to an accident or natural event?

Jesus is always clear: they did nothing wrong. They didn’t sin. They aren’t deserving of this. But evil exists, and it can destroy life for its own purpose. Accident and nature sometimes kill or maim.

The bad news is that none of us is safe. None is immune from unfair dangers that threaten us.

But the good news is that it matters how we live. A life that shines in the darkness is a life worth living. A life that makes other lives matter is one that matters on its own. Yes, we are all imperfect, just like those Jesus describes, but being perfect (as if that were possible) is certainly no guarantee for a danger-free existence.

Instead, we live our lives as if there were no tomorrow. And we live our lives as if there were a million tomorrows.

The threat of danger slinks close without our noticing. 

As we respond to the needs in Ukraine or wherever there is pain, we enter more deeply into the human condition and we recognize our own vulnerability. We become more empathic, more human. May we learn our true humanity from Jesus, who certainly could not avoid danger, but whose life still brings hope to us thousands of years later.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2022

According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus went on a spiritual retreat right after his baptism. It wasn’t to a lovely community by the sea where he ate well, had spa treatments, and enjoyed a nice soft bed. No, he went to the wilderness—the expansive, lonely wilderness—where he would be attended only by his faith. He ate nothing and considered what he was to do next. And, as is often true for anyone who ponders doing great things, he was tempted to avoid the moral center of his life and call.

Luke records three temptations. Let’s focus on the second one.

Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, ‘To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.’ Jesus answered him, ‘It is written,
“Worship the Lord your God,
   and serve only God.” [Luke 4:5-8]

Surely, as Jesus imagined his future work, he pictured a life that helped people connect to God, that would bring healing to a broken world, that would teach people what true goodness is like.

Like so many who have big, beautiful dreams and aspirations, Jesus was tempted to take a destructive route to reach a constructive conclusion. But he was already a wise man, and he knew in the deepest part of his soul that such a path never leads to righteousness. It leads to the type of power, influence, and authority that are morally depleted, self-possessed, and bankrupt of heart.

You can’t let go of the most important values in order to reach your goal, hoping to relocate those values once you’re there. It sounds possible, maybe even laudable, but it is neither. Because when you reach the destination, your values have been left so far behind they aren’t even visible any more.

Jesus sidestepped nothing, because he knew instinctively that every moment, every act, every intention has the potential to move us toward the right place, or lead to our downfall.

The glorious end does not justify the corrupt and faithless means.  

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2022

Will you fast for Lent? What does that even mean?

It meant something different in the book of Isaiah from what we often think. Here’s a critique of fasting and prayer with the intent of making ourselves more acceptable to God and to ourselves.

Why do we fast, but you do not see?
   Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?’
Look, you serve your own interest on your fast-day,
   and oppress all your workers.
Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight
   and to strike with a wicked fist.
Such fasting as you do today
   will not make your voice heard on high

Is such the fast that I choose,
   a day to humble oneself?
Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush,
   and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Will you call this a fast,
   a day acceptable to the Lord? [Isaiah 58:3-5]

“Spiritual” acts and activities are not truly spiritual unless they are accompanied by action. It doesn’t mean a thing if we intersperse Lenten spirituality with the same old same old daily life. The writer goes on to tell us what God really wants.

Is not this the fast that I choose:
   to loose the bonds of injustice,
   to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
   and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
   and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
   and not to hide yourself from your own kin?
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
   and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
   the glory of the Lord shall be your rearguard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
   you shall cry for help, and God will say, Here I am. [Isaiah 58:6-9]

What ought we to do? How do we make our Lenten fast more acceptable to God and to ourselves? I think it requires a turn in our minds and souls—a turn from getting off easily (say, reading a chapter of scripture a day) to trying to understand how to make that discipline a worthwhile act for the world in which we live (moving from reading to action, for example).

Will you fast for Lent?

Will you choose to use less carbon so that the earth and its inhabitants can breathe?

When you sit to eat a meal, will you choose to remember and honor those who give their lives and livelihoods to the planting and the harvest, to learn about their work and to share what you have with the hungry?

Will you skip a meal or snack or coffee in honor of those who have had nothing to eat that day? And will you determine to help programs that work to eliminate hunger?

Will you drive through a part of town that knows violence, and think about the people who live there, who fear stray bullets and yet send their kids to school each day? And will you work to reduce violence and poverty?

Will you read a book (or watch a film) by a person who is very different from you and try to see the world from a new perspective?

Will you inform yourself about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, and will you make your voice heard against aggression and colonialism?

Will you spend an hour during Lent studying about a single group that is oppressed (because of race, gender, ethnicity, social status, etc.)? And will you determine to be a person who calls out oppression and partners with oppressed peoples?

Will you join your voice with the voices of those who are experiencing homelessness? Will you work with them to find lasting solutions to systemic problems?

Will you reach out in good faith and intentions to someone from whom you are estranged?

Will you remember that these above acts are spiritual acts and disciplines, just as much as prayer, meditation on the scriptures, and fasting from food and drink? And will you determine to continue them long past the season of Lent?

Because Isaiah didn’t mean that we only fast for a few weeks a year. The kind of fasting that’s important—the kind of fasting that’s meaningful to us, to God, to the world we inhabit—is a goal for our always.

The best kind of fasting raises our awareness and leads us to act on our beliefs and our spirituality.

May it be so.

Flag of Ukraine, from vocaleurope.eu

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2022

This week the church remembers the story of Jesus on the mountain, the vision of Moses and Elijah, and the confusion of his friends. (I mean, who wouldn’t be confused by this vision?) Several of my preacher friends hate preaching these transfiguration stories, but I like them because they reveal so much about how the gospel writers reflected on their heritage and on moving into a new future connected to the past. What I always pay attention to is what comes after that story. In Luke, it’s a demon possession.

What a juxtaposition. Lightness, Law, prophet, voice, cloud—then a plea for help and release from mental illness.

Most modern Christians, when they focus on the healing stories of Jesus, spend their time on the physical and metaphorical. From blindness to vision, from deafness to hearing the voice of Jesus, from being unclean because of a disease to restoration in the community.

Yet how many leaders and congregants suffer from mental health issues? Percentage-wise, I’m sure it’s the same as the general population. Just as faith doesn’t keep you from getting cancer, neither does it make you or the people you care about immune from depression, epilepsy, schizophrenia, Alzheimer’s, addiction, or any other mental illness or disorder. Mental health is often shuttled to the background in congregations. Prayer requests rise for the one having a stent put in an artery; no one mentions the person in drug rehab or the twenty-something who is hearing voices. Too many of us see it as shameful.

When we do, we aren’t being very Jesusy.

Here’s what happened right after the transfiguration story (in Luke’s gospel).

On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him. Just then a man from the crowd shouted, ‘Teacher, I beg you to look at my son; he is my only child. Suddenly a spirit seizes him, and all at once he shrieks. It throws him into convulsions until he foams at the mouth; it mauls him and will scarcely leave him. I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not.’ Jesus answered, ‘You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you? Bring your son here.’ While he was coming, the demon dashed him to the ground in convulsions. But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, healed the boy, and gave him back to his father. And all were astounded at the greatness of God. [Luke 9:37-43a]

To whom is Jesus speaking when he calls them a “faithless and perverse generation”? I’ll answer that one. I believe it is the disciples, and perhaps also members of the crowd. The disciples “could not” cast out the demon, or they chose not to. They were as confounded by mental illness then as we typically are now.

Jesus sighs deeply and complains about the inability of his followers to take this illness seriously. Then he rebukes the illness, heals the boy, and restores him to his family. Everyone is amazed.

Today we still have too few resources to help with mental disorders and illnesses, but we have many: pharmaceuticals, therapies, studies, residential programs, interventions. Are our faith community leaders as likely to refer people for these programs as they are to encourage them to see a doctor for a bad hip or high blood pressure? Or are we as useless to those who need help as the disciples were to this man and his son?

The day after Jesus is involved in a vision of glory, he heals a mentally ill boy and helps save a family. This is important—essential—to this story of transfiguration.

Our faith communities can no longer ignore mental health. It is one essential way we reflect the glory and greatness of God.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2022

‘If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return. Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.’ [Luke 6:32-36]

Life is often about keeping score. Who’s better? Who’s up? Who’s down?

From the national level (Russia/Ukraine) to sports (Olympics, Super Bowl) to politics (Republicans/Democrats) to the personal, scorekeeping is close to the bone. We live in a competitive world. Keeping score can be about not being able to forgive the person who truly harmed you, or trying to move forward with someone you care about who has deeply hurt your feelings. It can be about changing someone else to be more like you. (Wouldn’t that be nice?) Often, all you want is revenge. Or, more nobly, justice. Forgiveness is out of the question. And loving them? Please.

In the United States, our public discourse has become increasingly difficult in the last few years. It’s hard for people even to talk to someone who has a different opinion—about vaccines, race, masks, protest, January 6—much less to see them as equally deserving of love and mercy. And yet this is exactly what Jesus calls for. He doesn’t propose keeping score. He tells us to love.

Okay, we say. Loving is easy. I love my family, my friends, people I like, people who think the way I do.

Nope, says Jesus. Not them. Well, sure, you can love those people, but anyone can do that. I want you to love your enemies.

No. Love our enemies? Get real, Jesus.

What is that about? For many, this is one of the hardest teachings of Jesus. Honestly, it makes no sense. How does anyone get ahead in the world if we love our enemies? It depends on what you mean by getting ahead.

It’s important to recognize that we all know how these teachings have been abused: enslaved people were told they should just go along when their bodies and souls were harmed; wives are still sometimes told they should stay with their abusive husbands and love them.

That’s certainly not what Jesus was saying. He was not talking about the abused still living with their abusers and saying it’s all okay. No one should remain in a relationship that causes deep harm.

Jesus was trying to get people to see each other in a different light: People are human. The one who is so very different from you, who thinks and acts in what you consider to be harmful ways, who can’t, it seems, manage to care about what is truly important—this person, says Jesus, is human.

Love them.

What does this look like? Well, if keeping score is about getting ahead, then we must think with our souls and realize that everyone needs to get ahead.  

Everyone.

I’ve recently discovered a group called Braver Angels. It’s a not-for-profit organization dedicated to bridging the Red/Blue gap in the US. Impossible, you say? Maybe. But if we don’t try to reach out to those who are different from us, we just keep moving farther away from them. Here are a few of their principles, found at the link above:

Our mission is to bring Americans together to bridge the partisan divide and strengthen our democratic republic. We do so by observing the Braver Angels Way: 

• We state ours views freely and fully, without fear.
• We welcome opportunities to engage with those with whom we disagree.
• We treat people who disagree with us with honesty and respect.
• We seek to disagree accurately, avoiding exaggeration and stereotypes.
• We look for common ground where it exists, and if possible, find ways to work together.
• We believe that all of us have blind spots and none of us are not worth talking to.
• We believe that, in disagreements, both sides share and learn. In Braver Angels, neither side is teaching the other or giving feedback on how to think or say things differently.

These are basic rules of conversation. This is how we learn to get along without keeping score, whether it’s in a family, a faith community, or across political divides.

If we stop keeping score, then everyone wins.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2022

Ahmaud Arbery

Breonna Taylor

George Floyd

Say their names.

Black Lives Matter.

As we Christians arrive at Trinity Sunday, many think about ancient arguments over obscure theological points. Instead, we ought to focus on the relational nature of God. If we reflect that nature, it applies to how we interact with each other.

Our country is currently enmeshed in discussions, demonstrations, and soul-deep reflections about race—dealing with a 400 year legacy of systemic racism. It’s about time. So many good resources are available in books, film, and online that can help us navigate important territory.

What I’d like to address here is how White people, especially White Christians, often take over the conversation and try to make it all about us. I hope that is an unintended consequence of our words and actions, but it is a consequence nevertheless.

A recent video from an Evangelical church near me has created controversy in the community. There’s no doubt in my mind that the makers of the video intended it to be a caring response to the events of the day. The video consists of two White male pastors condemning racism, then talking about all the things their (mostly White) church does to help in local Black communities, including food programs, tutoring, etc. While much of what they do is good from nearly any perspective, the video definitely had the tone of White savior mentality—WE can fix this. Just follow our lead and we’ll all get along.

Today I went to look at their website to watch the video again and make sure I didn’t misquote them, and it was gone. Here’s a statement I found instead:

Earlier this week we released a video that missed the mark on a variety of fronts, and we are deeply sorry for the poor judgment on our part. We also failed to appropriately address the injustices that have happened recently in our country. As a church we are committed to pursuing racial reconciliation and bringing about justice in our communities. In an attempt to respond better in the future, we are seeking the wisdom of black pastors, staff members, and church members…

I’m certain I still have many theological differences with this congregation, but at least some of its leadership is listening to the voices of those who are hurting, to a community that has been wronged for four centuries, and to voices that are different from the ones they usually pay attention to. They’ve apparently realized that White Christians don’t have all the answers, and that we can only move toward wholeness when we listen and follow, instead of always thinking we must lead and do.

On the other hand, it’s also wrong for White people of faith to abandon Black communities and persons as though racism isn’t a problem, as though racism isn’t our problem. It is our problem, and we have to show up and make changes in our minds, our hearts, our faith, our communities, the systems that have become sick with the illness of racism. Our participation is required.

What does that participation look like?

Trinitarian theology is understanding that even in God there is relationship, and even in God the relationships are egalitarian. When we live into reflecting the image of God in ourselves and in our relationships, we remember that our way should often take a back seat. In the discussions that are now taking place, we must listen to those who have lived with the severe realities of racism, and we must assume they know more about their experiences and their communities than we do.

Racism and racist systems won’t end if we don’t act. But White Christians participate in a different type of racism if they think they have the answers.

Reflecting the character of the Trinity, may the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer teach us what we need to be for each other.

Ahmaud Arbery

Breonna Taylor

George Floyd

Say their names.

Black Lives Matter.

© 2020, Melissa Bane Sevier

Several weeks past Easter, I am still talking to folks who lament the fact that they were unable to gather in person for that greatest of Christian holy days. They missed being in the worship space they love, with their familiar leadership and music, joining friends and all the guests who show up on that holy day. Instead, they watched on the internet as someone preached to a near-empty room, as familiar music played without congregational singing, as prayers were offered in what appeared to be a vacuum.

This Sunday we welcome Pentecost, a celebration of the church becoming the church. Some congregations will be gathering together physically, but most I know will not. As so many have noted, that doesn’t mean they aren’t being the church. As a matter of fact, I think that being the dispersed church is the most visible theological statement we are making right now.

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.

Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. [from Acts 2]

The church on its first Pentecost is really only the church when it exits its place of prayer. At the beginning of the story in Acts 2, the Jesus people are gathered. When they encounter the spirit, they apparently are immediately on the move. Out on the street they meet those who are also looking for an encounter with the holy. In faith and courage from all those , they share a language of love, welcome, and peace.

What is the church doing (or what can it do) during this pandemic that makes it the church?

• The church is the church when it speaks the language of the weakest in our society—the poor, those with inadequate health care, the at-risk, the sick, the dying, the grieving, the unemployed. We need to listen to their voices and to join in with our own. Now is the time, perhaps more than any other, to emphasize partnership with our communities, especially the communities of need, and to increase our presence even when that presence isn’t physical.
• The church is the church when its members recognize their responsibility to every human being by being cautious and respectful, by not endangering other people, by not putting pressure on the health system, by wearing masks in public, and by maintaining social distance. To disregard the health of our fellow humans is to deny the teachings of Jesus.
• The church is the church when it celebrates the good and calls out the bad, when it pays attention to the science and eschews fake or misleading news and commentary, when it honors those whose jobs are essential to keeping us going, when it advocates for those in need, when it promotes governmental support for those who’ve been most deeply affected by the current crisis.

I confess that while I have missed certain qualities of the gathered faith community, I’ve loved watching faithful people display new ways of being the church scattered. We’ve been reminded of the many who are often excluded from in-person worship because of age or illness or because of job requirements or life circumstance. Our own inability to congregate makes us more mindful of those for whom that is their typical situation. Some faith communities have learned to speak the languages of Zoom and Facebook and YouTube.

It seems that we are recovering some of the principles of the early church—the fundamentals of caring for each other and for everyone, the reclaiming of the concept of “neighbor,” the understanding that everything is transitory, the reminder of what’s important. We are relating differently to each other and to the world. We are speaking the language of life.

The church isn’t the buildings. It isn’t even just a gathered faith community. The church is the people who live and participate in the world and who do their best to improve the lives of all.

When we have relearned these truths, then—despite our inability to assemble as usual—we have experienced new life in new ways.

If Easter is about life and resurrection, and if Pentecost is about newness and the expansiveness of God’s welcome, then this year—in relearning these truths in unfamiliar circumstances—we may be experiencing the most Eastery of Easters, and the most Pentecosty of Pentecosts.

© 2020, Melissa Bane Sevier

I grew up in East Tennessee, not far from where snake handling was popularized in the US. Snake handlers believe that they should be able to pick up poisonous snakes and pass them around as a sort of worship rite. Those who trust in God, they say, will not be bitten. Even if bitten, the faithful believe they will not die and so they refuse treatments and antidotes. Every few years at least, one of these communities makes the news when someone is bitten in a service and later dies.

Lately, I’ve thought of snake handlers as I hear news reports of faith communities that choose to gather even as the coronavirus pandemic is making its way through their communities. In some places, people have died as a result, and many have been sickened. Even so, they and others rush to defend their right to come together in one place for worship as a First Amendment issue, saying the government of their state has no right to tell them not to meet. Public health be damned, they can only be faithful if they defy science, common sense, and their call to care for each other and the larger community. A few are filing lawsuits. Some have even proclaimed some version of “God commands us to gather.”

Just so you know, God commands no such thing.

Though I’m using a lot of words here, I admit to almost being at a loss for words when describing such religious idiocy. In many ways, these gatherings are worse than those whose religious practices include the handling of poisonous snakes; faith communities that gather during the pandemic of a highly infectious virus would be more akin to people releasing rattlesnakes and copperheads in stores and neighborhoods. It isn’t just themselves they put at risk—it’s the larger community. And Jesus had a lot to say about caring for all our neighbors.

This week the lectionary text (John 20:19-31) is the story of the small, faithful community of Jesus’ friends gathered after the crucifixion. He appears to them, then later to Thomas. I think there are a few things in this story that apply to the theme of my blog:

• They are gathering to guard their safety, not to risk it;
• Jesus brings them peace, not fear;
• Jesus honors their doubts and calls them to faith.

Faith, here or anywhere, is never tied to specific acts of worship. Jesus was especially gentle about the faith of Thomas, the one who was absent.

Absence from in-person worship gathering does not mean one isn’t faithful. As a matter of fact, faithfulness expresses itself most in concern for the whole community, for our neighbors and strangers alike.

Taking up snakes is an act of haughtiness, of believing that the acts we choose to perform are more important than what God has in mind for us—healthy minds, spirits, and bodies, as well as healthy communities.

Worshiping in person during a stay-at-home order is the same thing—saying that what these leaders choose to subject their members to is somehow holy, when at the least it defies God’s goodness and peace. At the most, such congregations claim a power that doesn’t belong to them, or to anyone: the power to overcome the science of God’s creation.

God charges us to do what is healthy and right, because God cares. We should care, too.

© Melissa Bane Sevier, 2020

[Reprising a story I wrote in 2016. Feel free to use…]

It’s been almost a year since Joe met Mary. Almost a year since his whole world changed, because he loves her. And because she brought Eddie into his life.

Eddie is now 8. Joe never expected to have kids. Never even wanted to have kids. Kids cost money and Joe’s very frugal. Kids take too much time and they are always in your space. He’d been single a long time. Then married. Then divorced. He’d dated some. A single guy in his 40s with a good job is much in demand on the singles market, which is why he chose NOT to be on any online dating sites.

He met Mary at a New Year’s Eve party in the home of a mutual friend. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, which is probably one of the things that drew them together. They both landed in the kitchen cleaning up while the party was going on, because they’d grown tired of small talk. They just regular-talked.

They discovered they had some important things in common. Both love to cook gourmet food. Both love hiking. He invited her to join him on a hike when it warmed up in the spring, and she told him she had an eight-year-old boy she didn’t want to leave with a babysitter for a whole day. He said, “So. Bring him along.”

He couldn’t believe those words came out of his mouth, but he was even more surprised that he meant them.

The hike came on a day in March. Joe both dreaded it and deeply looked forward to it. He wanted to see Mary again. But what if he failed to connect with Eddie? What if he didn’t like Eddie? What if Eddie didn’t like him? He really didn’t know what to say to kids. Joe and Mary had been in touch by phone and email since the party, once talking nearly 2 hours. He felt his affection for her growing.

On a Saturday morning Joe picked them up and they drove down to the Red River Gorge. Typically, Joe would hike along the ridges, but he worried about taking a boy up where there were steep drop-offs. Instead he took them on Rock Bridge Trail down to the waterfall. Long enough and a little challenging for an eight-year-old, the trail’s turnaround point at the falls was a perfect place to stop for the picnic lunch Joe had packed.

The weather cooperated, cool and clear, with some of the trees just beginning to bud out. Joe had hoped to see deer along the trail, but it wasn’t to be, since Eddie talked loudly and incessantly during the entire hike. But Joe didn’t mind. Eddie was very entertaining.

Eddie had been hiking many times with his mom, and he told Joe what she’d taught him about being in the woods. “Kids can get lost in the woods,” he said. “Mom has three rules. Rule one is to stay together no matter what. You’re always safer together. Rule two is to watch the light. The direction of the light helps you figure out where you are. And if the light starts to fade, get yourself back to where you started. Rule three,” Eddie continued because he hardly stopped talking at all, “is to mark the important parts of the trail. That’s how you know where you’ve been. Remembering where you’ve been helps you find your way home.”

At a couple of spots on the trail, when they made a turn, Eddie built a cairn of rocks as other hikers had done before them, so they would remember this spot and know where to turn toward home on their way back. The trail was well marked, but constructing the cairns was fun, and Joe helped him look for just the right rocks.

That was the day Joe fell in love with both Mary and Eddie. He slept not at all that night, because his love terrified him. Eddie’s father hadn’t seen the boy, written, or called in six years. Eddie was obviously looking for a dad, and Joe was afraid he’d disappoint, that Mary wouldn’t want him. But Mary and Eddie fell in love with Joe, too.

After that day the threesome spent nearly every Saturday together, doing things from cleaning out the garage to going to a park.

When Mary and Joe decided to get married, they didn’t wait long. There didn’t seem to be any need for that; they just knew it was right. Eddie started referring to Joe as “my dad” at the wedding reception.

Things have changed so fast. So fast. Joe is different. He thinks about Eddie when making choices about almost everything, from which trails to hike at the gorge to what television shows to watch, from where and how to invest his money to where and how to spend his money.

Joe’s sleep patterns have changed. He goes to bed much earlier than he ever has because he is very, very tired. He gets up early on Saturdays because Eddie is up early. They let Mary sleep in while they eat Honey Smacks on the couch in their PJs.

Work has changed for Joe. He doesn’t work 65 hour weeks these days. He was offered a promotion that would involve a move, and declined it without a second thought . He wouldn’t even consider moving Mary and Eddie from the job, school, and friends they love. He takes time off for things that a year ago he couldn’t have imagined. A couple of times a month he meets Eddie at school for lunch. He took a whole day in October to go to the pumpkin patch with Eddie’s class. He has become the most popular dad in the third grade, because he’s the only dad who ever shows up for things during the school day.

And then there is Christmas. Joe never knew how different Christmas could be with a child. The excitement, the wonder, the laughter, the anticipation. Eddie taught him all their family traditions, told him the origin of each ornament, and every night they read Christmas stories together. The beauty of the past was surprisingly important for someone who was only in his ninth year.

Joe wanted to get just the right gifts for Eddie and Mary on their first Christmas together. He has rented an RV for a hiking trip on spring break. He gave them guide books to state parks so they can all plan the trip together.

Then there was Eddie’s gift to Joe: three washed rocks. He collected them out of a local creek and washed them three times in bleach solution and scrubbed with a brush. “Mom made me wear rubber gloves and she poured the bleach into the bucket of water,” he said. “It was hard work.” Three flat rocks of decreasing size. “I know how you love to hike, and maybe this will make you remember some of the fun hikes we’ve taken,” Eddie said. As if Joe could forget those great times of talking, hiking, becoming a family.

Joe was unable to speak. He gave Eddie a huge hug and used the stones to build a little cairn under the Christmas tree.

Joe has experienced deep transformation over the past year. What a whirlwind it’s been.

Not just one moment of new understanding and growth, but thousands of moments. He feels as though his heart is being expanded.  The memories and experiences are piling up like stones, each one with meaning and significance.

One night the family read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Matthew, and Joe thought about it a long time afterwards—about how Joseph wanted his life to go in a certain direction, but a woman and her child changed all of that. And how God was in it.

The week after Christmas, when the family was putting away decorations, Joe took his three washed rocks and placed them on one end of the fireplace mantle where he could always be reminded of Eddie’s heart and wisdom.

Sometimes you just wander aimlessly, Joe thought. Or you feel as though you’ve lost your way. Remember those three things the rocks represent: stay together, watch for the light, and make sure you mark the most important turns in the trail.

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit… [from Matthew 1]