For many of us, it comes around twice a year.  Some of us dread it; all of us are ambivalent at best.  We are thankful when it's over.  What is it, you ask?  It's that obligatory trip to the dentist. 

Once I knew a man who didn't like going to the dentist because all the instruments in his mouth tickled, and he had to spend all his energy suppressing laughter.  Most of us don't like going for a variety of other reasons: it takes up part of our day; it hurts; the hygeniest tries to talk to us when we are unable to respond; the chair becomes uncomfortable after about 35 minutes; sometimes we have fillings or root canals or teeth that need to be pulled; it's expensive.  There are many reasons not to like the dentist. 

However, as I nestled into the chair last Saturday, it occurred to me that there are actually several reasons to appreciate this twice yearly ritual. 

First, it forces us to slow down both our bodies and minds.  Often going to the dentist is an interruption of our routine.  There are more important things to do at home and at work or school.  But once we sit in that chair, we can't do anything about our "to do" list.  We are at the mercy of another human being.  Our physical bodies are out of our hands.  Similarly, it's difficult to be stressed about our chores, homework, or deadline when someone is poking around in our mouths.  The dentist has a way of taking our minds off of other things and shocking us into the immediate present, and how often do we really get to be present in the place where we are?  So it is with the meditation and contemplation, when our spiritual, emotional, and physical selves align in time and place and we can be more wholly us.

Also, the dentist is a place where we are tended, despite our best efforts.  Many of us care for our teeth by brushing and flossing, but the vast majority of the time we take our teeth for granted.  At the dentist, they are given time and attention.  Our mouths become more than just instrumental - they are valued for their own sake, and how often do we value our bodies beyond the simply utilitarian? So it is with our faith.  The wise teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, testifies that the good life is not measured in rewards but in relationships, not worldly accomplishments but in celebrating the fact that we are beloved, no strings attached. 

Finally, as with any ritual act, visits to the dentist are transcendent.  I, for example, have visited at least six different dentists in three different states.  I have gone during seasons of success and failure and during times of discontent and happiness.  There is a beautiful constancy about the twice yearly pilgrimage.  So it is with the rituals of our faith - baptism, communion, singing hymns, coming to worship.  Week in and week out, year in and year out we come not always because we feel like it, but because we are faithful to a community and a God that transcends our sometimes temperamental selves. 

Thanks be to God for showing up in the simply ordinary. 

Pastor Matt's bumper sticker theology in Sunday's sermon went something like this: "Comfort the afflicted; afflict the comfortable."  I recently learned that Martin Luther (the 16th century reformer) said this centuries ago.  This is one thing Christianity is meant to do if we're paying attention. 

After worship the other day, I had a beautiful encounter with two strong women of our church.  We were talking about Lent and the question came up: why would we give something up for Lent?  Why would we deprive ourselves?  Should we not celebrate the many gifts we have rather than sacrifice them?  I had to think for myself, I who have given up candy and chocolate and other sweet things for these forty days... why? 

Here's what I know: I crave sweets.  They are my default - when I get home from work I want a cookie.  When I'm stressed, I want to bake brownies.  Before bed I want some chocolate.  It's almost automatic.  So for Lent, I am interrupting automatic.  Every time I see the candy dish in my office, instead of grabbing a piece I think of giving up and letting go.  Every evening when I want something sweet I stop that mindless walk into the kitchen and think about my faith.  Every time sweets are served somewhere I remember the Christ who I follow.  Perhaps this deprives me of my automatic cravings, but it strengthen my walk with God. 

I have a friend, a pastor back in Kansas, who has written a beautiful Lenten reflection.  She writes this: "Lent is, by most North American standards, a disaster. Sign up to be sad? Agree to abstain from the best life has to offer? Plead for forgiveness and purification? No way! We’d rather be happy, happy, happy."  She challenges this automatic mentality saying, "We are all God’s ministers, called to fast and weep for people who are hungry, lonely, homeless, grief-stricken—including for ourselves... Maybe to accept sorrow is to make room for joy."

Maybe to accept sorrow is to make room for joy.  These are powerful words.  Why do we give something up?  Because we are privileged.  Because we are sinners, makers of mistakes.  Because to not know our fullest sorrow is to not know our greatest joy.  Because we have gotten complacent, we have become too comfortable, and we need to be afflicted.

Bless the women who encountered such matters with me.  Bless the God present there when our conversation dove right past "How are you?" and into "How about faith?"  May God grant that more coffee hour encounters spin into matters of the Jesus we follow. 

Jamie and I were walking in our Seattle neighborhood on Monday.  There are things we've gotten used to during our semi-regular walks: gray skies, dark green evergreens, views of mountains to the east and the west, a glimpse of the Puget Sound depending on which way we wander.  We've become accustomed to earth-toned colors, muted hues of browns, greens, and blues and the abundant life they hold within.

It was startling, then, to see the bright, bold yellow blossoms of the forsythia on Monday.  It was so delightful and startling that I exclaimed out loud, "The forsythia are blooming!" 

Growing up, there was a row of forsythia bushes out to the west of our house.  They stood presently along the place where my great grandparents' home used to stand.  We never trimmed them, and so they grew recklessly, and their blooming was dramatic, coinciding with the Easter season or thereabouts. 

My delight at the Seattle forsythia has quickly become confusion.  It's February, after all.  It's only Ash Wednesday - not yet time for the forsythia to usher in new life.  My ever-faltering Christian life still needs this winter season of discontent, of self-reflection and self-appraisal.  How can I repent, how can I wait for my savior when the forsythia are blooming, reminding me of the brilliant resurrection that is breath and being? 

I will find a way, I'm sure, to live in Lenten introspection.  As the landscape and the culture shape my practice of faith and shape it in new ways in the Pacific Northwest, so will the seasons, just in different ways here, where spring comes early and (I've heard tell) lasts long.  In the meantime, yes, in the meantime, I'm glad for the forsythia and such things. 

Last month's Youth Group festivities ended with a party, a chili supper and game night down in Pilgrim Hall.  Around 48 people were in attendance: youth, younger siblings, parents, youth board members, even a few new people who we haven't seen here before.  There were multiple kinds of chili: vegetarian, meat, one that was a little bit spicy.  We had cornbread, salad, and several desserts to share plus Deni's extraordinary punch to drink.  We played a variety of games too: Jenga, Pit, Apples to Apples, Blackjack, Ticket to Ride (my personal favorite), and more.  By all concrete, measurable statistics: numbers, food, and games, the evening was a smashing success.

But as I think about what made it successful in my mind, I don't think about how many people came or how good the chili tasted.  I think about interacting with all ages and kinds of people.  I think about the smiles and the noise.  I think about how everyone pitched in to put away tables and chairs.  I remember seeing parents sitting together and visiting and intergenerational games being played.  I think about the intangible things that made our party more than simply an event to be carried out.  It wasn't just that we had a good time - it was about being together.  The chili and games were, in my mind, simply an excuse for us to step out of our homes and our schedules and to share the same space with one another. 

Here is one of the best aspects of a congregation: community for its own sake. 

What if we did more of this?  I don't exactly mean chili suppers and game nights, though that would be a wonderful tradition.  I mean simply being together, coming together to talk and interact, making one another our priorities even when there are a million other things to do. 

Staci recently wrote a fabulous blog post about communities and her joy that church is a place of community that values face to face contact.  I echo that sentiment.  Church is a place where we can come together to be together.  It doesn't have to be a production or an event or pulling teeth or an obligation.  It may feel in turn like any one of these things, but really, at our best, we practice community for the sake of community.  

Along with four of our senior high youth, I spent this past weekend at our local UCC camp, Pilgrim Firs.  It was my first time being there for a youth camp.  It was also the first time for several of our youth.  Now being a first-timer comes with some built-in nervousness.  Whereas some of the friendships that arrived last Friday were close to a decade old, we were new.  While many people knew the layout and format of camp, we did not.  The ironic thing is that after I'd been there for about an hour, I didn't feel new at all. 

I was greeted by hugs and warm introductions.  The spirit in the air was friendliness and hospitality.  Throughout the weekend, we new people were affirmed for simply being there.  In group reflections, old-timer youth publicly thanked the newbies for our willingness to come and join in the group and the place.  They were the opposite of protective - they were ambassadors for the camp and for the acceptance there.  Youth and counselors alike embodied openness. 

Needless to say, I was smitten.  The Pilgrim Firs culture captured that UCC slogan in a nutshell: "Whoever you are and wherever you are on life's journey, you are welcome here." 

All this has me thinking: what would it be like to grow up going to a place like this?  What would it be like to know uncompromising acceptance and bountiful grace?  These youth know - in their spaces of wild energy and fun, in their spaces of doubt and insecurity, in worship, song and tears, these Pilgrim Firs youth know unbounded compassion from adults and from one another. 

Our theme for the weekend was "Be a Hero."  We talked about our gifts - naming them and then going deeper, identifying how we can and do share these gifts with others.  We also named the gifts in other people, in our introductions to one another and also in our celebration of communion at closing worship.  That's not an easy thing.  It's actually a paradigm shift to go around telling others what you like about them.  So often our default is to criticize and to close in on ourselves, to hide behind an attitude that challenges and questions everything.  Not at Pilgrim Firs - here authenticity reigns and everyone is a hero.

A final thought: what would it be like to send your children and youth here?  What would it take for me to convince you that this is a place they need to be.  It is a place we all need to be, but especially our youth.  Think about it.  Talk to me about it.  Let's put them in a culture where they are heros, and let's keep working to make our church a culture where they feel that too.