Lost/Found

 “But they strive for attendance while I starve for transcendence…”

These are lyrics from a song written by a band called Lost and Found. Lutherans are familiar with the wit of long-haired Michael and the energy of piano player George, the two members who make up this traveling pair.

Last weekend, they stopped by Bexley as they move across the US for their farewell tour after twenty-nine years of performing for small churches, mega-sized youth gatherings, and anything in between. Michael and George are not going to win a Grammy. They are not to be found on any radio station, featured in Rolling Stone, or make it to the Cleveland HOF. However, I think they are remarkable. Here’s why.

As a high school junior, I traveled to New Orleans for the ELCA Youth Gathering. I met Lost and Found there and found my way to their nightly concerts in a hotel ballroom. Religion had always been mostly dead rituals and contradictions to me, and I had stayed involved simply because I loved the summer mission trip weeks. That summer trip, Lost and Found caught me off guard. They did two things:

1) Laughed and had tons of fun.  

2) Sang songs with basic vocabulary that sparked wonder for a kid who was trying to figure faith out.

Here’s a few chorus examples –

The song “Kingdom” – ‘The Kingdom’s big enough for you. You were made to be here, too.’ Message – All are welcome.

The song “How Can You” – ‘How can you still want me? I have turned a deafened ear, said what you don’t want to hear, and somehow you still want me.’ Message – Grace is good news. And good news/Gospel always gives life and freedom, and nothing we do can separate us from that.

The song “Be Not Afraid” – ‘Be not afraid, be not alone, I have come to take you home. Be not alone, be not ashamed, I have called you by your name. Be not ashamed, lose not your sight, my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ Message – We are together, and fear is erased when the love of God whose name is Jesus names us as Precious, Honored, Loved, and Redeemed.

Some L & F songs sting too; there is “Used to Be,” which calls out an apathetic world that is still afraid of accepting love and relationship as the answer. There is “Baby,” which laments how humans must wear masks to hide real pain. There is “Opener,” cited at the beginning of this blog, a plea for waking up to transcendence instead of functioning through an anxiety of church survival.

And so 17-year-old me listened to these songs, and I thought this Lutheran thing maybe had more to it than I initially knew. At that same gathering, I met a representative from Wittenberg University and thought maybe it’s a pretty good idea to go to an ELCA school if I’m so curious about Lutheran identity.

Flash forward six (!) years, and I’m sitting on a blanket with some of my best friends from Witt, my fiancé from Witt, and once again I’m listening to Lost and Found have tons of fun and sing songs rich in simple beauty.

Thanks for Lost and Found for 29 years of music, and for teaching me that you cannot separate joy from faith. Stein auf. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-Ee7CrEtwc

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1VjLZ04DJjI

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrlHhNz8vWw

Doorway

 Written by Katharine

As a current seminary student, I often find myself in discussions through my classes and peers that are centered on defining what ministry looks and feels like.  This can be articulated in so many different ways, and because there is no defining answer, this discussion will only continue to happen.  However, as I begin my second year of seminary and we consider this ministry question in the classroom, my thoughts are immediately taken back to this summer, as I learned to listen for the sounds of ministry echoing through the mountains at Sky Ranch Lutheran Camp.

This summer, I came to love the sound of the Christ Lodge door swinging open and shut.  Being a member of the leadership staff, I spent a fair amount of time each day upstairs in the lodge office, preparing for evening worship or editing photos I had taken earlier in the day.  But as I was in the office, away from the campers and counselors who I knew were living out God’s mission simply by being in relationship with one another, that screen door was the sound of another ministry happening, where every single person would be greeted as Christ simply for being who they were.  

Many times this summer, that screen door was the sound of someone returning to Sky Ranch for the first time since they were a camper more than 20 years ago.  A few times it was the sound of a traveler who was a little lost along the dirt road and was looking for directions.  On Sundays, it was the sound of parents trusting this community to keep those they loved most safe, and it was the sound of these beloved campers trusting a new person to be their counselor.  It was the sound of hikers beginning and ending a journey through creation, of meal times, game times, bathroom breaks, and water bottle refills.  It was the sound of life.  It was the sound of ministry.  

Through Sky Ranch’s mission statement of encountering Christ on the mountaintop, the sound of this screen door became the sound of this exact encounter.  In a community where values are centered in fostering faith and providing hospitality, that screen door became the vessel to allow every single person to be received as Christ.  And as such, this sound, to me, became the hope of the Church at work in the world.  

-> Check out more about Sky Ranch here:  http://skyranchcolorado.org/

Wild

It took Cheryl Strayed 94 days to walk 1,100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. This morning I finished a 70 day hike as a children’s hospital chaplain.

In major travel or in the minor decision to enter a hospital room, moving outward causes one to look inward. The film Wild portraying Strayed’s life is constantly weaving in and out of flashbacks. Every new present sensory experience links to an image or scent or song of the past. It is evidence of how much memory we carry crisply with us, never as far away from our current cognitive processing as we think.

As a chaplain, my goal this summer in many ways was to look another human in the eye and find a way to ask the following question: in the midst of this place, how is your soul doing?

It’s not always the easiest question to ask.

But in those quiet evening hours, or after a summer in relationship with a dialysis patient, when I could find a way to do this, I grew to be amazed at the responses. I learned this summer that real listening is waiting to be surprised by what the other had to say. Instead of playing a game of assumptions and inference guessing and expectation matching inside my own head, I tried to pause and give room for another to articulate. I tried to give honor to that sacred space.

What I was “surprised” by more than anything else this summer was seeing the incredible relation between a parent and a child. It is clear to me that this love is the strongest force in the world.

In these outward visits to hospital rooms, I looked inward. I looked in and remembered the night after my cardiac arrest, where every time I woke up in the hospital bed, my dad was awake and standing next to me. All night. I remembered how the only thing my dad ever wants on Father’s Day is a letter from each of his kids. I remembered how my dad use to send us into giggle fits with his whisker rubs at bedtime.

I looked in and remembered how my mom would call me months after the cardiac event whenever she heard a helicopter to make sure I was okay. I remembered how through all financial hardship, she never stopped giving abundantly to us. I remembered her singing to us on summer evenings…”Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.”

Every day I was awakened by this force in the hospital. So many parents give up comfortable beds night after night to sleep on thin couches or recliners. So many parents actively learn all medical knowledge to be the advocate for their child. So many parents cling to a son or daughter’s hand when an IV is placed, or a crowd of medical staff gather around a bed, and they coach their child through it: “You’re so strong, honey. So strong. You are not alone.”  So many parents sacrifice all things to be present.

There is a predictable nature to this work. A parent hears the word chaplain; some fear this means death, others pour out their entire life to me without hesitation. Sometimes there are the difficult questions—“why did God let this happen?” Yet what is also predictable is that in moments of crisis, humans instinctively look for love. They must call their parents and siblings and partners. They seek human contact. They wail and shake and collapse to the ground and cling to your legs for connection.

Love can look like many things in the hospital. But as I have tried to answer the question this summer of where God is amidst trauma, I have found that I look now for these expressions of love. Parents risk much in having children, because of the potential to feel such pain when that loved one is hurt or gone. There is a real secondary victim effect in many cases. But as I finish this summer, I must say that my favorite thing about the human race is that we continue to make the choice to love, to procreate, to become vulnerable by caring for others more than ourselves in a world where not all can be controlled.

How daring our souls can be, to feel so much for a living neighbor in this world.

How wild they are.