There are murder bees flying into the United States. It’s snowing in May. My older son is trying to learn fractions. My younger son is addicted to this Minecraft video where some guy named Grian talks about nothing while he builds strange structures and fills them with chickens. We are out of bananas, orange juice, yogurt that comes in a tube, and frozen pizza.
A black man was murdered while running in a predominantly white neighborhood in Georgia two months ago, and he is only now just starting to get a glimmer of a piece of a part of justice.
Others are carrying assault rifles while they demand the opportunity to get a hair cut.
Some folks want to get this economy back open quickly, but don’t seem to be taking in to account the impact this will have and already has had on the working poor.
It feels like we’re all so lost. It’s been...a discouraging week.
Jesus is leaving the disciples to navigate their dashed hopes and dreams about the coming of the messiah on their own. In John’s “farewell discourse” Jesus is telling his friends that he has to go, he has to leave, he has to die.
Do not let your hearts be troubled.
I don’t know, guys. I just don’t know.
When Dan and I first moved to Pittsburgh, we didn’t have smartphones. We had one cellphone that we shared between us, along with one car, and a sweet tiny little house in Stanton Heights. East Liberty was still a few years away from its full gentrification and its Target, so one day I decided to venture out through the East End, over Squirrel Hill, and all the way out to the Waterfront to get some toilet paper, some laundry detergent, a box of Raisin Bran Crunch, and a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Now for those of you who don’t know Pittsburgh, It’s a landscape of hills and rivers, bridges and tunnels that don’t lend themselves to any form of a grid of any kind. So I printed out a mapquest, remember those?, to give me directions to the nearest Target.
I took a left on Stanton and then a right on Negley, followed that as it twisted and turned through three different neighborhoods, down to Murray Avenue, where I was supposed to first turn left on Wilkins, and then was supposed to go straight through to Beechwood Boulevard, which would turn into Browns Hill Road, which would turn in to the Homestead Grays Bridge, turn left on 5th street, another left on Amity street, a right on Waterfront Drive, which would inevitably lead me to the oasis of all middle class moms everywhere, our beloved Target.
Easy peasy, right? Needless to say, I got lost. I was used to three lefts equalling a right, you know, simple ways to recalculate and turn around when I went the wrong way, but these were not the easy perpendicular streets of Chicago or Indianapolis; this was Pittsburgh.
For years after, wherever we went in Pittsburgh, we needed a map, clear directions, instructions for getting us from point A to point B. Making even one wrong turn was so stressful.
I’m pretty sure I never found the Target that day. But I did pass by a curious church, with a rainbow flag waving at its doorstep, and an ALL are welcome sign, with the a, l, l, all in capital letters. I’d never before seen such a thing. It was a moment of cognitive dissonance. I stopped and stared at that church a little too long, and the guy behind me had to honk me through the green light.
What on earth? An open, affirming, church? One that didn’t just say all are welcome on their marquee in order to trick people in to coming to their church only to be belittled and berated for who God made them to be, but a church that actually meant it? Could it even be possible?
And if they truly believed that all are welcome, would they welcome me, a Catholic apostate with serious doubts about who Jesus was and is, serious doubts about Christianity in general and about what, if anything, it had to offer the human race? Would they welcome me, with my furrowed brow and questions about the Trinity and the incarnation and the divinity of Christ?
The next Sunday, we printed up another set of Mapquest directions, this time, in order to find that church again, in order to check out what they were all about. I mean, was such a place even real?
We found the church that Sunday, or rather, they found us.
They encouraged my questions and my doubts, they let me flex my heretical muscles, they even eventually hired me as their Director of Children and Youth. They walked with me and stood by me as I deconstructed my faith, down to the very foundations, and then slowly, gently, offered me the tools with which to build it back up again.
The pastor there gave me the opportunity to preach, and I was hooked. So, I went to seminary. I won a bunch of stupid academic awards. I had two babies and some depression and kept asking hard questions. A bunch of other hard and good things happened, we moved to some houses, we said goodbye to some dogs, we entered in to anxiety and came out and then went back in again.
I was looking for the Target. I wanted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
I was looking for Target, but I got lost, and I found Jesus instead. Not in some exclusivist, presumptuous, now-I-have-all-the-answers way. But in a way that is the way.
Give me a map. I want a map and a gps and clear directions in enough time to turn on my signal and anticipate the turn. I’m looking for Target. I’m looking for laundry detergent and cleaning supplies and peanut butter cups. I’m looking for the things I think I need to get through this crazy, confusing thing called life. Instead, I got a church full of people who loved us, who walked with us, who shared their lives with us.
I want a map. I’m supposed to know things, after all. I have student debt and diplomas enough to show that I should know things. I should have answers. I should have clear directions. As a pastor, I should be a Mapquest for the Christian life, right? Give me a map. I want to know where I’m going. I want to know when we’ll get there, how long it will take, how many potty breaks we’ll take in-between. But there is no map.
There is only relationship.
And like the disciples in our passage today, we are all desperate for a map, even when Jesus is standing right in front of us. Thomas, my favorite, asks explicitly for a map. “Lord,” he says, “we don’t know where you are going. How can we know the way?” And Jesus says, “I am The Way.” “I AM,” he says, resonant of God’s revelation to Moses at the burning bush. I am the way. Echoing God’s pronouncement that God will be who God will be. I am what I am. I am that I am. It’s being. It’s presence. Here and now, real life, concrete presence. “God is not to be found in eventualities,” as Nadia Bolz-Weber says.
God is to be found in the here and now, in the presence, in the relationship, even when we’re lost, even when we don’t know where we’re going or how to get there. Even when we’re looking for one thing, but then find something completely different.
Relationship is the way. That’s why two thirds of the Trinity is defined by relationship and the last third is relationship. The Father is not a father unless he is in relationship with the Son. The Son is not a son, unless he is in relationship with the father. The Holy Spirit is that God within all of us, connecting us to each other, showing us the Way.
And that is why we need relationships, we need connection with others, we need new encounters with people, to grow us and stretch us and invited us into new lands that we’ve never been to before. That’s why, as poet Jack Ridl says, “the most important word is with.” You can never not be with. You’re always with something. With some one, with yourself, with nature. Even in quarantine, we’re never not with.
We don’t get a map. We get a relationship.
If someone had mapped out my journey with my relationship with my husband before we got married, I probably wouldn’t have taken on the challenge. It was too fraught, the lows were too low, the hardships too scary. But we entered in, as young as we were, as naive as we were, because we believed in the relationship. We didn’t have a map. And we got a little lost. We hung on by the thinnest of threads. Things fell apart and we didn’t know where we were going or how we even got where we were. But we hung on to relationship. And for that, I’m so grateful. It’s the same, any time we’re in a relationship of any kind. Think about when you had kids, or adopted that dog, or made that new friend in the cafeteria at lunch time. There are no maps for the things that are greatest in our lives, only relationships.
And there are maps. There are lots of other maps. There are maps towards racism and injustice. Maps towards oppression and prejudice. There are clear maps that will take you to greed and consumerism and violence and protests against wearing masks in the Costco parking lot. There are triptiks and turn by turn directions to get you to grudges and judgment and broken relationships. There aren’t, however, a lot of clear maps on how to get us out of such predicaments.
But “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus says. “I know you want a map. I know you want to know the way. I know you want to know how this is all going to end up.” We think it would be nice to know the future, to know what’s going to happen, to know how we’re going to get to where we want to go. But what if we’re looking for the Target, and Jesus wants us to show us something else? Take us somewhere else? Somewhere we can’t imagine or predict or quantify or manipulate or simplify? Somewhere beyond aisles of clearly marked housewares. Somewhere messy. Somewhere unpredictable. It will probably be somewhere impractical. It will probably waste a lot of money. But it will definitely be where there is love and justice, where everyone is fed.
So often, I get so anxious about the future that I just assume it doesn’t include me. I can’t envision where I’m going to be, so I just assume I won’t be there at all. Or that, wherever I’ll be, it’s going to be bad. The murder bees are going to get me. Fourth grade fractions are going to be the end of us all. Racism and injustice will rule the day.
But we get one guarantee. Jesus has prepared a place for us. In God’s house there are many rooms. There is a place for you, wherever it is that Jesus is going. There is room for you. Room for your questions and your doubt and your heresies and your assertions. There’s room for you because the journey isn’t done yet.
You’re still bushwhacking and forging your way ahead, mapless, pathless, seemingly without trail markings that bring us comfort and assurance.
But we do get some markings, some cairns, some towers of rocks that remind us that we’re on the right track. We get healing, we get justice, we get redemption, little piles of rocks to tell us that we’re going the right way, little, precarious pebbles, stacked, one on top of the other, to encourage us to keep going.
The murder bees aren’t really a thing. Jonah will figure out his fractions. The CDC’s plans are being leaked, and Ahmaud Arbery is finally starting to get some of the justice he deserves. Everything feels awful, but the arc of history bends towards justice.
If you can’t believe what Jesus says, let the works speak for themselves. Let those times when you were lost and then when you found a new way, when you were looking for one thing, but found another, better, thing, let them be your guide. If you can’t believe what Jesus says, then just hold on to the journey, hold on to the way, hold on to the justice and the good things that are still there, still around us. Believe, as Nadia says, in “the sacrament of the present moment.” Believe in relationship. Believe that there is room for you, as you are, no matter where you are on the journey.
Thanks be to God.
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