John 11:1-14
There was a certain man named Lazarus, who was sick. He and his sisters, Mary and Martha, were from the village of Bethany. Mary was the one who had anointed the feet of Jesus with perfume and dried his feet with her hair, and it was her brother Lazarus who was sick. The sisters sent this message to Jesus “Rabbi, the one you love is sick.”
When Jesus heard this, he said, “This sickness will not end in death; it is happening for God’s glory, so that God’s Only Begotten may be glorified because of it.”
Jesus loved these three very much. Yet even after hearing that Lazarus was sick, he remained where he was staying for two more days. Finally he said to the disciples, “Let’s go back to Judea.”
They protested, ‘Rabbi, it was only recently that they tried to stone you– and you want to go back there again?”
Jesus replied, “Aren’t there twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk by day don’t stumble, because they see the world bathed in light; those who go walking by night will stumble because there is no light in them.”
After Jesus said this, he said to the disciples, “Our beloved Lazarus has fallen asleep. I am going to Judea to wake him.”
The disciples objected, “But Rabbi, if he’s only asleep, he’ll be fine.”
Jesus had been speaking about Lazarus’ death but they thought he was talking about actual sleep. So he said very plainly, “Lazarus is dead!”

Can we say it plainly? We are being dealt death.
We try and make sanctuaries– places of safety–and it feels today like nothing is impenetrable. Death gets in.
And so we weep.

Weeping in our homes, on Thursday as we awaited news;
weeping at the entrance to Silver Rail, where the memorial grows–-
weeping at Drake Park yesterday at No Kings, as people gathered to lament the violence wrought by systems that do serve us, nor do they intend serve us–
weeping at news of ICE abductions from store parking lots here in Bend yesterday.

Friends, we won’t participate in the grief Olympics–no grief is more important or more tender than another–
where there is pain, tenderness is there, and so God is there.

We are so, so sad.

But to be a grief people–people who know the saltiness of our tears quite well–
is no shame. It means we are human, which means we are made of stardust, which means we are connected to our siblings– moon and ocean– who make the tides go and the salt waters flow.

We cannot risk not grieving.
Grief is a sign of love.
We love this place, this town we call home;
we love our neighbors and wish we knew them better;
we love those children and that teacher, because we love them all, all of them are ours
all five who died– are ours.

Let us not be people who bypassed our sadness in favor of good opinions; let us not rush to stand on the right side of history without first standing here together, shoulder to shoulder, in lament. We will want to remember what this feels like– not here (head) but here.

And so we beckon Holy Spirit, Sanctus Spiritus, to hear our prayers of lament and grief.

+ANGER+

John 11:30-37
Jesus hadn’t gotten to the village yet. He was at the place where Martha had met him. Those who were there consoling her saw her get up quickly and followed Mary, thinking she was going to the tomb to mourn. When Mary got to Jesus, she fell at his feet and said, “If you had been here, Lazarus never would have died.”
When Jesus saw her weeping, and the other mourners as well, he was troubled in spirit, moved by the deepest emotions.
“Where have you laid him?” Jesus asked.
“Come and see,” they said. And Jesus wept.
The people in the crowd began to remark, “See how much he loved him!” Others said, “He made the blind person see; why couldn’t he have done something to prevent Lazarus’ death?”

The thing is, we have been made to feel like the kind of violence we experienced on Thursday is inevitable. These things happen.

Truly I tell you: this was the 26th school shooting so far in 2026.
Truly I tell you: gun violence is now the leading cause of death of children in the United States.

It’s become kind of kind of like… the weather.
We must adapt and bend to where the wind blows.

But friends: we cannot let that be true.
This is not the weather.
And so it is okay to be angry. More than angry.
Because it did not have to be this way;
we were made for so much better than this.

The powers and principalities–they will ask us trick questions:
is this a mental health issue, or a gun issue?
My anger tells me: we can address both.
The money is there, but the political will is not.

They will ask us trick questions:
See? A good guy with a gun stopped a bad guy with a gun.
My anger tells me: that good man who no doubt saved lives on Thursday
was forced to kill another man’s child in order to do so.
That’s not good news– that’s a setup.

They will ask us trick questions:
if there was something more, a better intention for our lives–
wouldn’t that “God” have saved those children?
And oh but don’t I have that question too.
Because I am angry.

And yet: there is a reason Jesus will call to his “Abba” God- which means parent.
There is a reason the ancients called the Divine Father, Mother, Nurturer, Caretaker.
Parents can’t keep all the bad things away–
can’t stop the bad things from happening,
control and orchestrate everything that happens.

That’s not parents’ job. It’s parents’ job to love.
It is parents’ job to weep
as we watch our hearts walk around outside of our bodies.
And parents’ job to know that rage that comes from love is powerful and clarifying.

So we beckon Holy Spirit, Sanctus Spiritus, to hear our prayers of anger.

+LIFE+

John 11:38-44
Jesus was again deeply moved. They approached the tomb, which was a cave with a stone in front of it. “Take away the stone,” Jesus directed.
Martha said, “Rabbi, it has been four days now. By this time there will be a stench.”
Jesus replied, “Didn’t I assure you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” So they took the stone away.
Jesus raised his eyes to heaven and said, “Abba, thank you for having heard me. I know that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd, that they might believe that you sent me!”
Then Jesus called out in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
And Lazarus came out of the tomb, still bound hand and foot with linen strips, his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus told the crowd, “Untie him and let him go free.”

Jesus knew, we know:
the only antidote to violence is, as adrienne maree brown says, loving and choosing Life.
The antidote is Life.
The antidote is resurrection– to rise again.

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, certainly not all at once.

To practice radical nonviolence with the violent patterns of Empire–
a culture that loves guns more than it loves children,
a culture that encourages isolation and tells us we are okay on our own–
to interrupt these patterns is to be resurrection people.

Resurrection happens not once, not twice, but ten times in these sacred texts.
Jesus did it not because it’s a one and done thing–
but to remind us that it must be done.
It simply must.
Resurrection is an ongoing reality.

And to walk in The Way of radical nonviolence and love of the rabbi, healer, brother Jesus
is to see signs of resurrection, signs of life, all around us.

Maybe not today, or tomorrow; maybe not all at once.
And when you can’t, I’ll see them for you;
just as when I can’t, you will.

So this is a dispatch from a resurrection people:
on Thursday, we walked to the playground, because what could we do?
And our boys started playing with a younger child, the dad joined in, Tom joined in, and we all played red light green light together, without awkwardness or fear of stranger.
At the same time, I knew Summer Baird was bringing chocolate ice cream to The Guest Family.
At the same time, I knew that William Guest was alive and safe at home.

At the same time as I know that those who died on Thursday are held in the Love that Surpasses all understanding–not alive in the sense they deserve to be but alive in the indescribable mystery some of us so inadequately call God. 

We grieve, we let anger clarify us, and we see signs of life.
And friends, I want to hear yours: your signs of resurrection.

So we beckon Holy Spirit, Sanctus Spiritus, to hear our prayers of Life.

The post Grief + Anger + Life appeared first on Storydwelling.

• Respect: we treat one another always in I-thou relationships, or subject-subject relationships, never objectifying
• Listening to stories: our own, one another’s, and ancient ones
• Breath and contemplation
• Beauty!
• Permission to stop, slow and rest
• We practice grace, repentance and repair
• Play and joy
• Discernment: we engage our spiritual lives to know what are our yeses and what are our no’s
• We are all leaders, responsible for the health of this ecosystem
• We practice consistency in gathering, over time, to build trust
• When we take public action, it is because it is deeply felt and arises out of the personal hopes and pressures of at least three leaders
• Lament and grief
• Singing and music together
• Spaciousness
• Honesty
• Curiosity
• Celebration!
• Willingness to be known and seen
• Vulnerability and open-heartedness
• We practice community discussion and conversation; we are not consumers of this experience!
• Laughter
• Flexibility and adaptiveness
• Decentralizing any one person or any one gathering, including Sundays
• Deconstructing theologies, especially harmful ones
• Inviting feedback and reflection, always
• When we communicate, we do so generously and preferably in-person

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Luke 1: 46-55
And Mary said:
“My soul proclaims your greatness, O God,
and my spirit rejoices in you, my Savior.
For you have looked with favor
upon your lowly servant,
and from this day forward all generations will call me blessed.
For you, the Almighty, have done great things for me,
and holy is your Name.
Your mercy reaches from age to age
for those who fear you.
You have shown strength with your arm;
you have scattered the proud in their conceit;
you have deposed the mighty from their thrones
and raised the lowly to high places.
You have filled the hungry with good things,
while you have sent the rich away empty.
You have come to the aid of Israel your servant,
mindful for your mercy–
the promise you made to our ancestors–
to Sarah and Abraham
and their descendants forever.”

I come from a long line of women who passed down to me
a particular kind of wisdom that said: no matter what is happening,
no matter how hard things are,
get up in the morning. Brush your teeth. Make your children breakfast. Do your job.

And I’ve told you about these women–my grandmother, especially, a daughter of the Depression– who survived three husbands and raised two girls on a meager living.
Do you come from this kind of line of women?
Or of men– who grit their teeth and bear it?

Most of the time, I have tried to be better than this grit-your-teeth inheritance–
it has seemed so… pre-feminist. So, anti-mental health. So, pro-burnout. So, mom rage-y.
And yet, there are weeks when I am grateful for the grit
that is in my blood and my bones that tells me to
get out of bed, make breakfast for my children, go do my job.
It is in gratitude to their grit, probably, that I was born at all.
Despite death, despite addiction, despite miscarriage and loss;
they got out of bed in the morning
and here I am today.
Here you are today. Thanks to someone’s ability to endure.

This is the same sentiment I read this week as I followed ACLU lawyer
Chase Strangio, the first out trans person to argue a case before the Supreme Court–
a case out of Tennessee that could provide scaffolding for
bans–or not–on gender affirming care under the Trump administration.
As he prepared to make arguments before the court on Wednesday,
he posted on Instagram some wisdom from his friend, the actor LaVerne Cox:
Allow our ancestors to speak through you. You are never alone and your strength is infinite when you invite them in. They are right there inside and around you.

Chase Strangio was inside that courtroom this week
thanks to someone’s ability to endure.
And someone–one of our children or grandchildren–
will perhaps owe their courage or their very lives to his actions this week–
whether or not he is successful in the courtroom–
he is succeeding in being an alive human with his vocation so clear.

So our descendents, hell–we!–for I know my freedom is bound up with the freedom of my trans friends, neighbors, family–
will one day wake up, feed their children breakfast,
thanks to the ability of Chase Strangio to endure.
Thanks to his endurance.
Thanks to the mercies that reach from age to age
buoying people up to keep going, to stay in it, to stay alive.

And in this way, Chase Strangio, dare I say,
sings Mary’s song– the inheritance of anyone doing the work of liberation who wants to claim her as their mother.
Her gift to us, the gift of endurance–
is not, I don’t think, the commandment to endure it all, no matter what–
to work ourselves to the bone, to be battered and exhausted–
but which is the kind of endurance which means to be able to place oneself in time.
To have a spiritual sense of what and who have come before
and who may come after.

When Mary sings that God’s mercies reach from age to age,
she is placing herself in history–
her own history and genealogy, which can be traced back to Abraham and Sarah–
and her people’s history, a story of struggle and promise.
You see for Mary and her community, in every age, there was a leader, a teacher–
someone who would reilluminate the heart and the worth of the people.
For Mary and her community, God was engaged in every age,
keeping the movement going.

She is naming that she is not the first, nor is she the last,
to understand lived oppression and to still feel the hope that resides deep in her belly.
And this is, perhaps, what it means to endure;
not to martyr ourselves, or lose our grip on our mental health for the sake of keeping the household running–
but to place ourselves in time, understanding that we are not isolated, by ourselves, ever.

Mary, I don’t think, could do what she did–
carry a mysterious, at best, pregnancy to birth,
without the deeper kind of endurance that comes from feeling connected to one’s place in time.
Someone in our community told me just this week,
that years ago, when she was in the delivery room,
in the moment just before she just about gave up,
she felt the legacy of millions of women before her who had done just this–
bring new life into the world–
and she was urged onward by this sacred sense of occupying her particular
beautiful
space in time.

And the babe in Mary’s womb, the incarnate symbol generations would hold up as
Emmanuel God with us–
carries his mother’s grit and endurance within him.
It is not endurance that sends him to the cross; that is Empire doing what it does.
But it is endurance that initiates the movement to reilluminate love and justice in the world–
the movement that teaches me daily that re-making the world is not a sprint,
nor is it a marathon–
but it is a relay, each of us showing up as we can when we can,
and releasing what is not ours to carry.

I know there is a lot right now. There is too much.
Ugh, and now it’s Christmas too, and
we’re going to get up and make breakfast and make Christmas magical for other people–
meanwhile, we are raising teenagers, which is beautiful and hard.
We are teenagers, which is more beautiful, and harder.

We are undergoing chemo and we are falling down;
we are undervalued or underpaid or both;
we are bored, we are wondering what the hell we’re supposed to be doing.

We are grieving. We are addicted. We love people who are addicted.
Our elders are dying. Some fast and some slow.
The arc of history does not feel like it is bending toward justice.

And this is a snapshot in time that I do not know that I can endure
if I am the first to experience it and need to be the final one to fix it all.

But IF this is a more sacred sense of time– in which I can touch on either side of me
the beloveds who come before me and will come after,
IF my shoulders can brush on either side of me you and you, here and now,
and given day you can give me what you cannot do anymore
and I can pass along to you that which still needs doing–
IF this is a more sacred soil in which we are planted–with roots that are deep–
inside the belly of the Mystery that surpasses all understanding,
IF that God touches every point in time, holding it in Her own womb place–
IF I can remember to place myself in the ongoing movement–in the relay–
of liberation and tender care,
then I can endure. And I will.

What a gift. What a sacred gift. To be held in the belly of God’s sacred time.
I truly trust that we have been given all the tools;
we have forgotten them, or no one told us;
they are hidden deep somewhere we cannot usually access,
but they are there.

Endurance is there.
Like the cicadas who lie in wait 17 years before rising to the surface to sing their song–
we know in our bones what it is to be patient and to keep going;
what it is to move more slowly, to rest a bit more often, and yet keep going.
We let the cicadas be our ancestors.
We let Mother Mary and her babe be our ancestors;
we brush shoulders with them on either side of us–
we draw on their wisdom, their grit, their endurance–and we pass the baton.

Today I will grieve for those who will not be okay. And then tomorrow I will fight to make it better. I don’t have answers but we have blueprints. And I will never stop fighting. For those who taught me and for those who will follow. 

I have been cast aside, but I sparkle in the darkness.

I have been slain but live on in the river of history.

I seek no conquest, no wealth, no power, no revenge:

I seek only discovery 

Of the illimitable heights and depths of my own being.

– Pauli Murray

The post Advent II: Endurance appeared first on Storydwelling.

Luke 1: 46-55
And Mary said:
“My soul proclaims your greatness, O God,
and my spirit rejoices in you, my Savior.
For you have looked with favor
upon your lowly servant,
and from this day forward all generations will call me blessed.
For you, the Almighty, have done great things for me,
and holy is your Name.
Your mercy reaches from age to age
for those who fear you.
You have shown strength with your arm;
you have scattered the proud in their conceit;
you have deposed the mighty from their thrones
and raised the lowly to high places.
You have filled the hungry with good things,
while you have sent the rich away empty.
You have come to the aid of Israel your servant,
mindful for your mercy–
the promise you made to our ancestors–
to Sarah and Abraham
and their descendants forever.”

There is a book that Theo loves right now about a community of insects who live in a garden
whose lives are turned upside when they find a marble that a child has dropped—
Could it be a planet, a star? A magical chrysalis?
They call it the “Wonder from the Sky.”

They are thinking, throughout the whole book, just WOW.

And I asked Theo, what makes you say “wow”?
And he thought about it, and he said, even this four-year-old said,
“I guess I don’t say that very often.”
His wow and my wow and maybe our collective wow is obscured, hidden,
underneath layers of small pressures like schedules and commitments
and larger pressures like the weight of climate crisis and wondering whether we will know
how to show up when we need to show up to exist as neighbors and friends in what could be an era of mass deportation and bathroom bills.

What room could there possibly be for WOW in all of that?

Awe, I feel, in my life, in these days, is all but suffocated. Or packed away in favor of “more important” impulses.

And yet, Mary turns to it first– it is her first impulse– as she sings of God’s greatness.
We might imagine her singing this song as she reunites with her cousin Elizabeth,
both of them pregnant with impossible babies—
Elizabeth, because she is old, and long ago gave up hope of having a child;
and Mary, because she is young, and the circumstances of this baby’s conception
are mysterious at best; we’ll remember this is not a longed-for child, but a disruption in her peace and in her life.
These two impossible pregnancies, reuniting,
and as Mary sings, summoning every fiber of her courage, we might imagine
her looking to the southeast of her cousin’s home, and there she would see
a huge resort, a palace—built by King Herod, the ruler of that region,
an homage to his power, and so of course he named it for himself: Herodium.
But before he built the palace—which was the largest palatial complex in the Roman Empire at the time—
he built a 2500-foot mountain on which to place it.
This thing was lit up in a time when things did not light up, and its light obscured the stars in the sky.
It was meant, towering above everyone and everything else, to inspire… awe.
To make the people together… feel something.

This is what awe does, yes?
Makes us feel something.
One particular scientist–Dacher Keltner– out of Berkeley has made it his life’s work to study the science of awe,
and what we know so far is that experiences of awe and wonder
activate our vagus nerve, which some people call the soul nerve—
which starts in the base of our spinal cord, connected to our brains,
and goes to our hearts our lungs our guts—
and so experiences of awe, they change us, physically.

If the power brokers of history were writing a textbook about awe,
they might conjure up examples like…
The 7 wonders of the world.
Like.. St. Peters’ Basilica
Like…churches singing Our God is an awesome God.
Like… every attempt patriarchy and domination systems have made to make the people together feel…small and powerless.
The list could go on and on: The Washington Monument. Trump Tower, for god’s sakes.

But those attempts at making the people feel small and powerless…they didn’t work, did they.
Maybe this is why this song of Mary’s has been banned in three different countries
at different points in time– to try and prevent the people from rising up–
the big buildings, the impressive monuments; didn’t inspire awe.

Because the wonders of the world are more like the marble in the garden—
they are small, they are intimate.
And the research plays this out.
We feel the most awe…not in nature, not in the presence of great monuments,
either natural or human-made,
but when we bear witness to small acts of “moral beauty.”
Like… when my older child gives my younger child one of his m & m’s.
Or when a stranger lets you merge in front of them, on the highway,
That’s when our vagus nerve gets activated– that’s when our souls are alive.
The second best source of awe? Something research calls “collective effervescence”—
When we are moving our bodies together, doing the same thing at the same time,
feeling that high of being in a dance class or counting down to the new year,
or singing one of our favorite hymns.
Communion.

When our vagus nerves are activated when we are alone,
our immune systems are strengthened and our brains have heightened clarity.
We are healthier, we are smarter.
And when our vagus nerves are activated when we are together,
our serotonin levels, our hormone levels, our heart rates are all aligned:
we are building community, we are healing our bodies and The Body of the world.

The wonders of the world are less like monuments and more like marbles—
more like embryos, and Mary knows this deep inside of her.
The awe of the people will not take them to their knees in front of Herodium,
it will take them to their knees by the ways we are connected;
by birth and new life;
by the reunion of beloved cousins;
by the helping and healing and small repairs we participate in every day;
by God in the flesh, all around us.

“Once I traveled far above the earth. This beloved planet we call home was covered with an elastic web of light. I watched in awe as it shimmered, stretched, dimmed, and shined, shaped by the collective effort of all life within it. Dissonance attracted more dissonance. Harmony attracted harmony. I saw revolutions, droughts, famines, and the births of new nations. The most humble kindnesses made the brightest lights. Nothing was wasted.”

― Joy Harjo, Crazy Brave

Our spiritual ancestor–Mary, God-bearer–
is telling us that awe is a vital part of what it is to be human,
of what it is to survive and to thrive,
so it is not pollyannish for me to suggest that perhaps awe could be our salvation.

Another thing awe does is remind us that we are not God.
And in a time when we wonder if we can survive, we wonder who will survive,
we wonder how we might be called in to show up in solidarity so that more of us can
survive and thrive—
it feels quite important, actually, to lean a little harder on the theological reality
that we are not God, that there is actually something both within and beyond us—
as close and fleshy and intimate as our womb places, and as distant and mysterious and cosmic as the stars—
and some of us feebly call that God.

So while we do not get to abdicate our responsibilities to one another—
and, thank God, awe will not let us—
neither is the repair of the world all up to any one of us individually.
Because we are a part of something much bigger than us,
and the awe of that brings me to my knees.

And reminds that I must rest, that we can rest.
For it is the gift of a gracious awe that tells us that each of us is a star in the map in the sky
but no one of us alone holds up the sky.
Thanks be to God, none of us alone has to.

Our ancestor Mary is no Pollyanna—
she falls to her knees in awe,
and this is the salvation—
the salve, the balm, the repairing impulse—
we inherit from her.

We proclaim the beauty and wonder of the Loving Force for Life and Justice
that surpasses all of our understanding—
and do we do it like our lives depend on it.

May it be so.

The post Advent 1: Awe appeared first on Storydwelling.

What can you expect at Juniper Mountain?

Parking: There is a large parking lot to accommodate all of us.

Accessibility: The entrance to the building, main gathering area, and bathrooms are all wheelchair accessible.

Seating: Seating is living-room style, with some extra folding chairs mixed in. It may take us a few weeks to figure out seating arrangements, but you can trust there is ample room for you.

Kids: There is a special conference room that we will use as a play space for kiddos, though they are welcome (as always) to flow in and out of our main gathering area on Sunday mornings. There will be art, stories and games with our kiddos each week, led by our new children and families organizer. There will also be a quilt and soft toys in the main area for the littlest ones.

Coffee + snacks: We will brew our own coffee each week, along with the usual fixings. We’ll always have granola bars and healthy snacks available, but anyone is welcome to bring a special treat (no peanuts please) any time!

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Join us Saturday, October 28, from 4-7 pm for music, games and activities, food + drinks, and an opportunity to celebrate and support this community we love! Costume contest at 5 pm and prizes for best dressed! We suggest a donation of $5 per person, max $20 per family. You can RSVP in advance or simply show up! See you then at Bend Church: 680 NW Bond St.

We are delighted to have received donations of the following fabulous prizes:

Kids Halloween Treat Baskets

Gift Card to Izzaroo – Apparel & Digital Planners
Izzaroo.com, a company that promotes intentional living.
www.izzaroo.com
donated by Mary To-Saturnio

Saturn’s Bling Jewelry
donated by Zander and Zoey Saturnio

Hardenbrook Hardwoods Charcuterie board
Custom Engraved Wood Gifts for special occasions and business clients
HardenbrookHardwoods.com
Donated by Dana Adoretti, owner of Harden Hardwoods

Life Coaching with Amanda Reill – 3, 1:1 Life Coaching Sessions
donated by Amanda Reill

Bottle of Chardonnay and small charcuterie/cheese board

Bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon

Starbucks Gift Card

Monkless Brewing glassware, donated by Monkless Brewing + 2 bottles of Szabo Brew, donated by the Szabo Family

Metolius Tea $50 gift card
donated by Amy Stahl

Ruffwear Puppy Package
donated by Ruffwear

Purple Fox Pottery
Handmade, wheel-thrown pottery in Bend, Oregon. Mid-fire stoneware clay to create cups, mugs, bowls, planters, and other functional items.
www.PurpleFoxPottery.com
Donated by Windy Adoretti, owner of Purple Fox Pottery

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Storydwelling–a small but growing web of community in Bend, rooted in the liberation threads of Christianity–seeks a creative, nurturing, and relational person to develop our community’s accompaniment of children and families in their spiritual development. To learn more about Storydwelling’s values and commitments, please visit our website: www.bendstorydwelling.org

This person will lead:

• a regular rhythm of spiritual practices for preschool and elementary-aged children during our Sunday-morning gatherings
• creative ways of meaning-making with children, including but not limited to skits, storytelling events, art, and adventures and outdoor activities
• children’s participation of and leadership in special community events and holidays
• a structure that supports parents/caregivers in developing practices and rituals at home
• the development of resources that other communities can learn from

This person will be a collaborator with the pastor and other leaders on:

• designing rituals around life transitions (welcoming a child, back-to-school, physical changes, teenagehood, interpersonal relationships)
• parent/caregiver accompaniment circle
• leadership development of children and adults
• a one-week summertime, full-day “spacious spirituality” camp, in partnership with other area congregations
• fundraising for the work

Qualities and Qualifications

Required:

• At least 2 years of experience working with children ages 2-12 in an educational setting
• Can catch the vision and imagination of a generous spiritual formation process
• Enthusiasm for ecumenical and multifaith partnerships
• Commits to upholding and modeling the values of our Affirmation Statement: https://bendstorydwelling.org/about/
• Demonstrates successful work in relating with adults/caregivers
• Strong written and verbal communications skills
• Ability to model personal boundaries when working with children and adults
• Flexibility, adaptability, and a prioritization of relationship
• Creativity and imagination for doing a new thing

Desired:

• Past or current participation in a public community (eg church, synagogue, civic organization)
• Familiarity with biblical stories and Christian ritual (communion, prayer)
• Experience in volunteer management and/or community organizing
• Ability to self motivate and generate own work plan

This person must pass a background check and be CPR/First Aid certified. They must be available most Sunday mornings. Strong preference that this person also be available on Christmas and Easter.

Fundamental practices we will invite this person to commit to:

• listening listening listening! to children and adults
• creative/expansive approaches to the Bible and other sacred stories
• peer and intergenerational relationship instead of “programs” or “curriculums”
• leadership development of children and adults
• development of their own leadership and facilitation skills

Primary hopes for this person’s time and energy:

• build bonds of community and friendship among our children, as well as among their parents/caregivers
• bring families out of isolation and deeper into community
• companion our children as they make meaning and develop resiliency in a complex world and in a web of relationship
• offer children access to biblical stories in ways that are accessible, affirming and just
• steep children in our shared values as a community (relationship, care, justice, liberation)
• ritualize important moments in life for our children, their families and our community.

To apply, email thatpastorerika@gmail.com with a resume and cover letter. We know our community is richer when people of diverse backgrounds, identities and perspectives are in leadership. LGBTQIA+ people, BILAPOC, and people with disabilities are encouraged to apply.

Applications accepted on a rolling basis until position is filled.

The post Now Hiring: Children and Families Organizer appeared first on Storydwelling.

For the past few weeks, I have been praying a fervent prayer–
God, let the opportunity arise for me to preach about Barbie. Please. Amen.
And now, dear friends, that moment has arrived. The first of many, probably.

We encounter Barbie as she is about to walk out onto the beach
where Ken and Barbie and Ken and Ken and Ken and Barbie
are all “beaching.” Not surfing, not swimming– beaching.
She goes to take off her shoes and something happens that breaks her world:
her heels touch the ground. She has flat feet.
That’s just one of the many symptoms she has that indicate that
her world is different. Something fundamentally has changed about Barbieland.
And she doesn’t want ANYTHING to change–
she has the dreamiest house, the cutest car, the best friends–
nothing is supposed to change.
That is the whole point of Barbieland– it’s perfect. No changes allowed.
Especially cellulite.

And as a real human watching this movie,
even though Barbieland does actually look amazing,
I started to feel pity for Barbie really early on.
Honey: life is change.

When I was in chaplaincy training, one of the most compelling
concepts about good care for people
was noticing their tolerance for change. All change is grief.
It was my job to notice how that grief showed up.
If I walked into a hospital room, and the family was there,
I could tell pretty instantly whether they were open to being cared for.
Being receptive to someone changing the status quo,
shifting the dynamic, is having a low need for homeostasis–
that impulse to constantly regulate so that things don’t change.

I took this idea into Tom’s and my relationship and we included it in our wedding vows–
a commitment that we would have a low need for homeostasis,
that we wanted our relationships to shift and change us,
we wanted our home and our family to be open.
Which is probably why we’ve said yes to hosting so many people this summer.
We committed at the beginning of things to aspire to be people who welcome change
because we believe it is the natural, good way of things.

Sci-fi novelist and afro-futurist Octavia Butler once wrote:

All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change.

In my clearest, most grounded moments, I am faithful to that God.

And the Canaanite woman is too,
in a way that, it seems, Jesus is not.
Jesus, at the beginning of this exchange,
is towing the traditional line of his people:
that the Israelites are God’s chosen ones.
That blessing and favor and healing are for them.
That his presence and ministry are reserved for them.

And I understand it, we can understand it,
this impulse for the circle to be drawn around the Israelites
in a desperation for protection and belonging
because if we remember to read these texts
as a collection of stories to inspire and hearten the oppressed–
we remember that, for a people oppressed,
God is for us
is a powerful statement of rebellion and dignity
in world that is continually against them.

But in the hands of dominant culture, or in the hands of those who oppress
intentionally or unintentionally–
God is for us
becomes exclusivist and violent.
I will be curious to hear the theology of Christian supremacy, Christian nationalism
that emerge at the Republican debates.
This language– God bless America– uttered by politicians on both sides of the aisle–
take their cues from the Jesus of this story.

And the alternative, a universalism that has emerged over the past 100 years
among us good progressive Christian type people–
that God is for everyone and all paths lead up the same mountain–
isn’t so much better.
Public theologian Damon Garcia writes that
If in one scenario you’re right and everyone else is wrong,
and in the other scenario everyone is right in their own way,
then in both scenarios you’re always right, and therefore have nothing to learn from others because you already have everything figured out.

What is the alternative? The alternative is this story.
Over the course of this short exchange,
the Canaanite woman– a woman certainly outside of Jesus’ circle,
religiously, culturally, racially,
changes his heart and his mind about the nature of the circle to begin with.

Even the dogs get the children’s leftovers.

The vision for reconciliation and repair is always expanding to become more inclusive.
And even that word inclusive–
as a community we decided over a year ago that we’re not super interested
in “including” people in what we’re doing already
so much as we want to be about
being changed continually by our relationships.
We sing May the Circle be unbroken every week, and I love that song,
because protection and belonging are vital, especially on our hardest days,
when we feel so acutely that the systems were not always designed for us,
and yet the circle needs to be porous, it needs to break and be made again,
it needs to have gaps where people can come and go
and where relationship can change us always.
God is change.

This is the realization of Jennifer and I in a good conversation last week
about this LGBTQ+ spirituality circle that is slowly slowly slowly coming into being…
we realized that the queer folx who call Storydwelling home
have found a space, more or less, to bring any pain or woundedness they have
from churches past. They are in the circle. The circle expanded and broken and breathed
so that we who are here have found belonging together.
This space is designed for us.

So: what we are talking about when we talk about accompaniment for
queer folx whose spiritual pain is so close to the surface
is listening to the stories of people we haven’t met yet.
Letting the circle be a breathing, porous organism
that changes because of relationship.
So we are going to do that: listen– widely– this coming year.
I have thought for many years of God as relationship
so God must must must be change, too.

That is the movement of all life finding its way to survive, yes?
Certain species of woodpecker have evolved to adapt to wildfire–
they eat grubs only out of freshly burned trees.
There are small mouse-like marsupials that have evolved to shelter in in a sleep-like state
as wildfire flames pass overhead.
And there are the mothers and parents who adapt out of desperate love for their children–
shifting the environments around them, shifting their whole lives–
because Life wants to live, so it must change.
God is change.

Which is such good news–
for the animals and plants surviving these wildfires,
for those, especially queer folx, for whom churches and systems have not been designed,
for mothers protecting their children,
and yes for Barbies living in Barbieland where everything is perfect but it isn’t true.

God is change, is very very good news for the parts of our stories
where the pain is close to the surface.
It will not always hurt like this– on the land, in parenting, in the quest for belonging.
The winds will shift
and we will redraw our circles
for the sake of more voices, more delight, more justice.

May it be so.

The post Barbie, Jesus, and the Need to Change appeared first on Storydwelling.