Let’s Be Honest

By: Mindy Misener - Mindy Misener is a Member in Discernment at Pilgrim. She is currently planning a Pilgrim writing group for the Fall.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

—Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”

Why participate in organized religion at all? It’s a fair question. There are other ways to find community. There are other ways to learn about the history of the Christian tradition and the Bible. There are other ways to seek and experience God. There are other paths for pursuing social justice, other places to gather. There are other venues to hear music, there are other nurturing environments for children, there are other organizations that would gladly accept volunteered time. My point isn’t to compare the quality of any one church’s offerings with any other organization’s offerings. All I’m saying is that a lot of what we find at church we can also find elsewhere.

A lot, but not everything. One thing that makes church a unique and even holy place for me is the opportunity to be honest about our experience of living: our fears, our despair, our grief, our loss, our fury, our helplessness. While other particular, small-group settings may offer such honesty—I think of AA meetings as one example—I can’t think of any other organization that opens its doors wide once a week for a public gathering in which the goal is—or should be, at least—recognizing something about what we are all living through, collectively and individually.

Of course, it’s easy for performance to trump truth. It’s easy to don masks of being “fine” when we don our Sunday outfits. And there’s nothing wrong with using a mask to disguise things that we’re really not ready to share. But there is always a time when we need to put down our masks, and I would submit a healthy church community as a place better equipped than many others to love us when we do.

I know that “gospel” means “good news,” making Christians bearers of good news in the world. I really do get that. But when good news is nothing but platitudes and quick assurances, there’s little room to find out how the good news actually works in any particular life. Despair often does yield to joy—but not in a predictable way. Grief can make room for a wider and deeper understanding of love—but it doesn’t do so on a timetable.

So let’s find more ways to share our true stories, to invite honesty by being honest with one another. Let’s not rush to make promises to each other because we can’t bear to face our own fears about whether those same promises will be fulfilled in our own lives. Let’s sit with the sadness and desperation that’s as old as the hills—as old as the holy texts we share in common—and tell each other about how this life is finding its terrifying edges. And then, when the time is right, we will each of us tell a true story about how this life was rescued by love.

A Common Blessing

By: Bruce Smith

At Pentecost we celebrated the advent of the Holy Spirit and its immediate extension to believers of many nations. We even heard many languages in our own sanctuary; although I doubt it was quite the cacophony of that world-changing day. The further expansion of the blessing of the Holy Spirit to non-Jewish nations as described in the book of Acts was equally stunning to traditional believers within the Jewish faith. For them, the Jews were the chosen people and the faith had become restricted to the “right” people. Even the Samaritans, long-time neighbors, were excluded. But the Spirit was not to be so constrained. The Gospel message and the blessing of the Spirit was soon extended to peoples of all nations to become the greatest expansion in history. Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, Syrians and Ethiopians and others became equal to what previously had been a special small, limited group.

Today we enjoy being the benefactors of that great expansion. Yet we easily fall into viewing ourselves within the boundaries of denomination, nation and/or theological tradition. My thought today is to take a moment to embrace to overarching wonder of millions of people touched by the Holy Spirit. Across nations, styles, schisms and acrimony, we are still all united in seeking to be guided by that Spirit to a life infused with Christ. It is so easy to focus on our differences but those, in my mind, are secondary at best. The important part is that while being as different as those Parthians, Medes and Elamites at that first Pentecost, we share in a common blessing.

As I write this, I remember worship experiences as diverse as raucous, horn-tooting, joyful celebration in Uganda, a Pentecostal service under a tent in Congo, the powerful music and cadences of a Catholic mass, the incense-filled beauty of the Greek Orthodox tradition and a friend delivering a fire and brimstone Christmas Eve message in a stark upstate New York start-up church. And I’m sure these barely scratch the surface of experiences around the world. Yet, in each, the Spirit was and still is active.

In a time when divisiveness, narrow nationalism and distrust seem so prevalent, we can benefit from accepting the differences, embracing our similarities and focusing on the commonalities. I’m not saying it’s easy or that I do it very well but I’m reasonably sure it’s a good path.

At the same time, I urge us to look beyond our borders to the wider world and our brotherhood with believers around the world. Our church is not limited to a fine building on 3rd, the Bozeman community or our country. The power that brings us together in a common cause urges us to view and support each other as brothers. There is concern for those who struggle with challenges we can only imagine. But there is also a reassurance in knowing that we are part of a vast, diverse congregation that we can barely imagine. Michael Jackson and Lionel Richey touched on this concept in “We Are the World”:

We're all a part of God's great big family

And the truth, you know, love is all we need

We are the world

We are the children

Let’s revel in that thought and act with it in mind.

A Way Forward? →

By: Carolyn Pinet

Impossible

not to recall Noah's ark

as I watch replay - yes, over and over -

the image of a curiously ark-like house

swept in the swirling current

and breaking up into pieces.

I wonder how did everyone

live to survive,

and where are they today?

How do we measure loss when

the road from Gardiner to Mammoth

we trusted in for years

collapses before our eyes,

disappears in a fleeting dream,

the one where we saw a mother bear,

with her cubs meandering,

by the same waters

which have just risen up

and plundered everything?

O tell me, where is the camino

we all thought we knew

and how lost is our way?...

Could this be the moment when a bird,

with a leaf in its beak, flies down to us

beneath a glimmering rainbow, and

where Noah and his creatures,

swept in the buoyant current,

live to tell a new story?

For the survivors of the flood

And for the rescue crews

Floods and Fingernails

By: Kerry Williams

When my husband, Spencer, and I first moved here, we experienced a spring fairly similar to the one we’re experiencing now. The winter brought lots of snow in the late season that was heavy with moisture, and the sky continued to rain even after it was too cold to create snow. It was 1997. We were working in Livingston at the time, and the level of the Yellowstone River crept up over time, not like the surge that happened this year. We chipped in with filling and moving sandbags to try to protect property and shore up precarious riverbanks. It was a time of great stress but also great opportunity to come together as a community. It was a feeling of doing good, and doing everything possible to prevent catastrophe. When difficult things happen it helps to gather together, but when an entire community is shellshocked, it’s harder to find the comfort we seek. It’s the difference between not having to use words when spending time with an old friend and having to explain yourself to a new friend - the depth of feeling that comes with shared time and effort has a different tone. It is not easy to get knocked down out of the blue and have to piece a life together that had been planned a very different way. When I talk to people now who lost either property or future business to the floods we just saw rip through the landscape, I can see the desperation and confusion on their faces, and I think the experience will affect them for a long time to come. Being able to prepare and work toward a solution, even if it ends in the same difficult outcome, somehow strengthens us and gives us a way to process the challenge. Whenever I’ve been blindsided by bad news, it takes so much longer to come to terms with the situation and find my footing, if I ever manage to do so. I far prefer putting things back together if I know I’ve done all I can to minimize the pain in the first place. It seems like that preparation shouldn’t matter, but it is actually key. It’s why I have to say that I am really confused by why such simple things can bring comfort. If the origin of a crisis is so complicated that it’s almost impossible to pull apart pieces such as timing and control and relationships and intentions, then why can I find such joy in the tiniest things? My kid is experimenting with colored nails right now, and one of the bottles is called Confetti. It’s clear, with brightly colored specks that disperse randomly across the surface. I put this nail polish on my fingers this past weekend and I can’t tell you the joy it brings me, almost constantly, throughout the day. The fact that I can look down at my hands and see a little burst of fun has made my life better in a very tangible way - I am simply happier. The feeling is clear and immediate and uncomplicated. I am not at all suggesting that a painted fingernail can overcome a deep sadness, in fact I am very much on board with the backlash to the self-care movement, which can seem to suggest that a spa day can counteract societal failures. What I do want to remember is that we can find comfort and happiness in small, unexpected ways. I don’t consider surprises my friend, but maybe this light feeling of “huh, I wasn’t expecting that” can bring me along the path a little further toward contentment. And maybe the inner joy I can build through meaningful micro-moments can shore up my own banks high enough to offer help and comfort to others when they need it most. Praying for the resiliency of our landscape and the people who live and rely on it, and that joy will come again in unexpected ways.

Sunday Birdsong - "Take these broken wings..."

By: Carolyn Pinet

This morning at Pilgrim

one more bird sings "at the dead of night,"

under grey skies and a sprinkling of rain.

I'm humming under my breath

while what we call "reality"

contracts, then expands:

tightly closed wings open and flutter,

poised to launch aloft.

By the end of the service

broken wings are mended,

the church shines with light.

"Three little birds" take off,

wing their way upward

to settle in the blond rafters

and sing a sweet song.

They rhapsodize heart, body and soul,

o blessed harmony

in a twittering trinity!

“Blackbird," Paul McCartney, 1968

"Three Little Birds," Bob Marley & the Wailers, 1977

And thank you to Chris and Amy who played and sang!

A Historical Perspective

By Susan Wordal

I live in a house with historians. I don’t know what you all live with, but I learn quite a bit about the ancient history of things and the mythology of ancient times because my historians are students of those things. Anything after Christopher Columbus (whose name is “Mud” in our house!) is just not as interesting to my historians.

The curious thing is, when they went through confirmation class, I realized I knew more about the history of the United Church of Christ (UCC) than they did, and still do. But then I went to the national UCC website and started reading, and realized my knowledge is a rather overly condensed version of reality. But it’s fun to read about these things…

The UCC grew from followers of Jesus some centuries ago. (the website story says 20 centuries. That’s a LONG time, but since we began using “20XX” for the date, I guess it is 20 centuries ago! Time flies.) Our journey took us through the Reformation, teachings by Luther and Calvin that our salvation is a gift, not something we must work to “earn”, and the journey of the Pilgrims to the shores of North America.

I’ve always understood that our UCC origins were through the Puritans in North America. To read about them is to discover that this faction was named in 1563 because they sought to “purify” the church. They spent their time criticizing the Anglican church liturgy, ceremonies and the lack of discipline despite their rhetoric, particularly the clergy. (A case of do as I say not as I do??) Despite the Puritans’ criticisms, they remained part of the Church of England.

The “Congregational Way” was born in 1567, and they were known as “the Privye Church”. They began meeting in clandestine ways to avoid persecution. The first conspicuous advocate of Congregationalism in England was in 1581 through Robert Browne, an Anglican priest who espoused the conviction that “the only true church was a local body of believers who experienced together the Christian life, united to Christ and to one another by voluntary covenant.” [Any of this sounding familiar?]

A group often called Separatists traveled in a round-a-bout way from England to Holland to the New World aboard the Mayflower in 1620. (if you think I’m leaving a few details out, you’re correct, but if you’ve read this far, why not go a little farther?) They drew up and signed the Mayflower Compact forming a small colony or a “Civil Body Politic” for laws and regulations. Other factions of the Puritans or Separatists also traveled to the New World and extended to a new church in Salem “the right hand of fellowship”.

The Puritan hold on politics and membership in the church would be challenged in 1634 by Anne Hutchinson. Her influence and her “voluble tongue” influenced Congregational practice and theological thought, ultimately leading to a crack in the rigid righteous shell of Massachusetts Puritanism. Others would eventually create additional cracks in the Puritan foundation.

As you can see, as the teachings of Christianity, and the advocacy of equality before Jesus and God became increasingly taught and accepted, the hold by the Puritan Church began to weaken. Other bodies of faith have their own stories which are interwoven with those of the Congregationalists. In the 19th Century there was a movement to create denominations, a movement away from the unconcern for sectarian labels of the previous century. Congregationalists withdrew from the Presbyterian Synod in 1852 and united under a national organization for the first time.

The history is fascinating and reads like the history of the United States at times. The interrelated aspects of the many bodies which came to make up the United Church of Christ is at times inspirational and yet frustrating. For every step forward there were two steps back or sideways. There are glimpses of amazing courage and foresightedness. Women were accepted in ministerial roles in various factions of the precursors to what is now the UCC, as were people of color, and people who would later be identified as LGBTQ+. The UCC was “born” on Tuesday, June 25, 1957 in Cleveland, Ohio, when “…the Evangelical and Reformed Church, 23 years old, passionate in its impulse to unity, committed to “liberty of conscience inherent in the Gospel,” and the Congregational Christian Churches, 26 years old, a fellowship of biblical people under a mutual covenant for responsible freedom in Christ, joined together as the United Church of Christ.” https://www.ucc.org/who-we-are/about/history/

I’ve always said, the church I know was born from the death of the Puritan Church. Maybe that’s not quite accurate (and maybe a little biased, since they are more associated with the whole “witch-burning” thing with which I have a decided problem), but the history of the UCC is a history which, while having some not so stellar moments, is a history which should instill its members with no small amount of pride in the obstacles we have overcome and the forward thinking espoused by this denomination.

The history is a lesson in our ability to persevere and overcome. It’s a lesson we should draw upon given the current climate. We’ve been here, and we can weather this storm, too, with the help of God

Have You Ever Thought About Voting as a Spiritual Experience? →

By Rev. Laura Folkwein

Today is election day in Gallatin County, and I am wondering if you have ever thought about voting as a spiritual experience? We research candidates and study up on issues on the ballot. But do we pray about our votes and the election process? We can, and perhaps we should.  

Here are some things we might pray about today and this November: 

We can pray for all candidates, that they remember who and why they want to serve. That win or lose, they engage in fair and transparent processes. That when elected, they have accurate information and sufficient support to make informed decisions on behalf of those they represent. 

We can pray for people who hold office currently, that they may govern with fairness, integrity, and justice.  

We can pray for everyone overseeing and managing the election process, for clear heads and compassionate service (including many of our church members serving as election workers today). 

We can pray for free and fair elections around the world, and those who observe them to promote and protect democratic processes.  

We can pray for our own decisions as we fill out our ballots at the polls or at home. That our votes may reflect our best hopes and clearest values for our communities, based in our best interests for ourselves and our neighbors.  

We can remember everyone who has served us by serving in elected or appointed office with gratitude.  

We can pray in gratitude for everyone who has had to fight to get and maintain the right to vote, and we can pray for forgiveness for the sin of disenfranchisement and exclusion. 

Early in the U.S. voting access was initially given to states to decide, and most states limited voting to white males who owned land. 

In 1870, post Civil War, the 15th Amendment guaranteed that the right to vote could not be denied based on race. However, Indigenous people in the U.S. were not allowed to vote until 1924, with passage of the Snyder Act. 

The 19th Amendment guaranteed that the right to vote would not be denied to anyone on account of their sex, in 1920.  

Additional voter protections were ratified in 1964, and the 1965 Voting Rights Act, (which was amended and severely weakened in 2013). 

In 1971, 18-year olds were allowed to vote. 

(Learn more at: https://constitutioncenter.org/interactive-constitution/blog/the-evolution-of-voting-rights-in-america)  

In Isaiah 58:1, the prophet says “Shout out; do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet!”  

To vote is to raise your voice. There is much to be concerned about these days in terms of national and local governance, abuses of power, and widening ideological divides. Still, voting is a sacred right and a privilege not to be wasted or taken lightly—even if sometimes we may wonder if it matters. Decisions about how we live together in community: who runs our courts, who oversees our schools, who represents us in all levels of government, should be made carefully and prayerfully.  

On election day, I am grateful to have and to freely exercise the right to vote. I am grateful to be connected to history, community, and something greater than my own interests. Voting is part of the spiritual practice of loving my neighbor and participating in community with faith and hope. 

Ponderings on Justice

By Susan Wordal

I hear the word “justice” a lot in my work. I also hear it a lot in the public dialog. But I find the word means different things to different people. And, it has different definitions in a dictionary or among dictionaries. All of these are applicable, but it’s interesting to see what is the first definition in a dictionary. For example:

Justice: the process or result of using laws to fairly judge and punish crimes and criminals-Miriam-Webster

Just behavior or treatment-Oxford Languages

The quality of being just; righteousness, equitableness, or moral rightness-Dictionary.com

Now, in my world, as a former City Prosecutor, the Miriam-Webster definition strikes a chord with me. My job was to see that those who committed a crime were held to account for that crime. Notice I don’t say, those who are accused of a crime, because not all those accused actually committed a crime. The law is supposed to be written to provide us with the guidelines by which we live. If someone crosses the line, that person might be said to commit a crime.

As an attorney, the first part of that definition, ending with “fairly judge” also strikes a chord with me. Because whether we are dealing with crimes or with property disputes or other matters, the law is supposed to provide us with guidelines by which we live, by which we determine disputes, and for which we can turn when there is a question.

But history has taught us that our laws are subject to human failing. Some laws are written from a biased perspective and, over time, we come to see the error of that bias and we correct it. Some of the laws we have find their basis in the 10 Commandments and most people would say, “I agree with that one” about a few:

• Thou shalt not kill

• Thou shalt not steal

• Thou shalt not bear false witness (lie)

Interesting that out of 10 Commandments, there are only 3 secular items I can pull out of them which are likely to get more or less universal agreement. I don’t include coveting your neighbor’s goods because, frankly, we can want what our neighbor has without actually stealing it from them, and stealing is already covered, so I left the coveting out. That one is between the person and God. So is taking the Lord’s name in vain, honoring your parents, and observing the sabbath. I’m not even going to get into coveting your neighbor’s wife! That’s a whole other discussion.

So, if laws are not always a good guide, and things change over time, how are we, as good Christians, or as good members of a just society (if we take religion out of the equation) supposed to know what is or isn’t acceptable.

I think the clue is a combination of the above definitions. While the laws might not be perfect, generally there is a theme to them. It centers around not killing or causing physical injury, not stealing and not lying. But Justice, and being just, is also about observing something we’ve said to our kids for years: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Sounds a lot like something Jesus said: “Love your neighbors as yourself”. Justice is holding others to the standard to which we would hold ourselves. We can’t dictate what is morally right. We’ve tried and it doesn’t work. But we can put ourselves in a particular set of shoes and can ask ourselves: How would I like it if this was me? If the answer is: Not very much. Then very likely that isn’t something we should put into law.

History has shown us that judging another by their gender is not right. Took us WAY too much time to figure that one out, but we eventually started to get it. We’re still working on it, but then, nobody is perfect. Judging another by their skin color isn’t right, either. And again, it took us W-A-A-Y too much time to figure that one out, but we’re starting to get it. Same goes for sexual orientation, nationality, and many other things.

So, the next time you hear the word “justice”, you might want to consider what it means generally and what it means to you personally. If you feel like you are hearing your grandmother in your ear with that refrain, “Do unto others…”, that might just give you a clue.

May wisdom guide us and justice be a measure of who we are.

Where My Heart Goes to Heal

by Dilynn Wise

When school ends and summer vacation begins, I find myself needing a way to recharge, reset, and heal my heart. And ever since my parents thought it was a good idea for my brother and me to fill our summers with as many activities as possible, there has been one constant. Every year I have felt my summers were incomplete unless I spent at least one week up at Camp Mimanagish. Once I had gone to Camp, I felt like it would be okay for summer to be over. As I got older, I felt the need to be at Camp longer and longer. Luckily, I slowly found a way to increase the number of weeks I could gain up there.

It wasn't until I was in high school that I understood why I felt the need to go to Camp every year. There are so many little things that we put-up-with throughout the year. Things that we carry with us in the back of our brains we don't notice until the weight of all those little things finally tumbles down and crashes right into the middle of our life. There needs to be a way for each of us to purge all of the little things, hopefully before they all tumble down.

Mine is going up to Camp Mimanagish, a place that anchors me and helps me shed all of the weight I carry when I’m down the mountain. Each mile that I travel towards Camp, I slowly let go of all the things that really shouldn't matter or my mind keeps obsessing over. So, when I finally step out of the vehicle and take a deep breath, I can feel that breath throughout my whole self.

Camp is a place that means so much to me in so many different ways. I grew there mentally as I learned about who and what I am. What is important to me when making decisions about my life. Physically I learned to do the things that make me happy and that happiness can be felt all over. Camp is a spiritual anchor for many people who go there and that is the same for me. Who I am and what I am and where I want to go in my life were discovered and are rediscovered at Camp.

Now I have the good fortune to be up at Camp all summer, and meet everyone who comes up there. People who are at all stages in the journey of their life. And seeing them eat and enjoy the food that I make for them is a special feeling. There are connections made sitting around a table eating a meal together. Food is the fuel you need to go out and find your happiness. This is my joy to witness during the summer. There are so many moments that can take your breath away or make your heart sing. All of these things add up and heal the tiny fractures in my heart, and I begin again.

When the Bough Breaks

By Rev. Danielle Rogers

I often imagine myself at the helm of a rickety ship, as it crashes against rough waters while Jesus sits soundly at the stern. I imagine how I would have reacted and find myself identifying with the disciples in Mark 4:35-41. Just like them, I feel I would have awakened Jesus in extreme distress and asked him if he cared if I were to drown on the open sea. I see myself in their desperation and questioning of God’s protection. Even now, as I sit firmly in the fortieth plus decade of my life, I fall back on that story and ask God, “Are you here? Will you let us drown?”

Nowadays, I don’t ask God this question on an individual level but as a societal question. Every day there seems to be another catastrophe, a taking of life through war or gunfire, the questioning over our bodily rights, or senseless violence through words and actions that hurt deeply and leave the most optimistic people puzzled and in quiet contemplation. I watch and see our society split further into factions, as discussions become heated or worse, non-existent.

For the last several years, our news media has stated our country is in the thrust of a culture war. As our society becomes more progressive, a challenge to once firmly held beliefs that are disintegrating around us, and for many who cling to the old guard, they are desperate to hold onto a changing nation that is more diverse, less religious and more educated then ever before.

I often use the metaphor of childbirth to describe this situation. America is in a constant state of childbirth, and the process is long and painful. The bough of our nation is quickly strained, and the old mantle is falling apart just like an old limb on a worn out tree. For many, this analogy of a never ending childbirth may seem depressing, and you are not wrong. For with great change there often is an element of pain, sadness and grief, yet in the midst of a new life, a new future hangs overhead.

I can not predict what will become of our future, but I do know God’s grace and love is with us sitting at the helm of the ship, and laying gently on the ground as padding for a tired old bough. Just like the disciples, while I may show fear, I still hold a firm belief in the eternal goodness of a God who profoundly loves us. Through that love, we as a society are tasked with sharing and teaching that love to one another, even through the midst of a culture war or the continuous birthing of America.

What Are You Waiting For?

By Mindy Misener

People love to talk about hope. More to the point, they love to tell you to not give up hope. It’s the one thing we have, they claim, when times are rough.

But hope can hurt more than it helps. In fact, there’s evidence that the POWs in Vietnam who survived tended to be pessimists, not optimists. The optimists kept thinking they’d be released next month—or at least by the end of summer—or surely by the end of the year. Over time, the accumulation of disappointment was spirit-crushing.

To be clear, in their shoes I’d think the exact same way. When the unthinkable happens, all we crave is for it to stop happening. We decide how long we think we can hold out for resolution, and then we put a mental flag on the calendar right before we’re sure we’ll lose our marbles.

But doing so gives us little more than a false sense of control. Sometimes the problem is resolved, the pain lessened, by our hoped-for date. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t. And it’s still there at the next invented deadline, and at the one after that. What do we do then?

*

The problem is that we often conflate hoping and waiting. Waiting is when you anticipate something that is almost sure to happen. Waiting is standing at a bus stop, squinting at the corner where the bus is supposed to appear. Even if the bus is late—even if it broke down on the other side of town—it (or its replacement) will come to this stop eventually.

Hope, though, is the opposite of tapping our foot waiting for the bus to arrive. In fact, I would argue that real hope is not anticipating a specific outcome at all. Real hope is about living the life that we have today and acknowledging that the thing we desperately want may never come to us.

Real hope may look a lot like pessimism, then, because it imagines unwanted scenarios as possible, or even likely, outcomes. The difference is that hope assumes that life is still valuable, that love is still accessible, that God is still with us, even when the worst happens. The Apostle Paul, after all, writes that “hope that is seen is no hope at all.”

Today finds me waiting for plenty of things—like Spring! (Remember Spring?) Some of the things I’m waiting for, though, are not as sure as Spring. This means I need to sit a little more with my desire for them and with the real possibility of disappointment. Then I need to discern the hope that lies behind my longing. This hidden hope is bound to be both essential and abstract—something like connection, forgiveness, peace, joy, or love.

And then—and this is the critical part—I need to live in a way that invites that hope to flourish. Not because I’ve imagined exactly how it fits into my life, but precisely because I haven’t.

Reflection on Psalm 23: 1-3

By Jeanne Smith 

Long ago and far away in a particularly challenging passage in my life, 3 AM became the bewitching hour. Wide awake with thoughts churning, I reached for the 23rd Psalm. It became my mantra and companion in the dark times. Because the whole Psalm is the subject of a sermon, I will reflect on verses 1, 2, and 3.  

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me beside still waters.

He restores my soul. 

Lord, you are my shepherd; that means I am one of your sheep, part of your flock. When I stay close to you, listening to your voice, I am at peace, safe. But, I am me, at times your stubborn black sheep, wandering off, getting lost, on the brink of disaster. You always find me and bring me home. 

I lack nothing. How can I have so much food, so many things to wear: warm coats, boots and mittens for our long Montana winters, and sandals in so many colors for our brief, but lovely summers. You love me no more than Harry, my homeless friend, the child who goes to school hungry, or the Ukrainian refugee. I think you are asking me to share and share some more. Gandhi said, “Earth provides enough for every man’s needs, but not for every man’s greed.” 

You make me lie down in green pastures. As a hiker, you have led me to some exquisite places in your creation: mountain tops decorated in wildflowers of every color. There I see butterflies, discover animal tracks, hear bird song, and smell the exotic fragrances of the earth. In your creation I find peace. 

You lead me beside still waters, creeks and babbling brooks, ponds and lakes, streams and rivers, and the seashore, where I can sink my toes in the sand and marvel at the expanse of the ocean. Each speaks to me in its own way. 

And lastly, you restore my soul. Regularly I need to be renewed, repaired, recovered, revived, and healed. You, the great physician, are there to make me whole again.

Make a Joyful (Silly) Noise

By: Wendy Morical

For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 1 Corinthians 1:18 (NIV)

Last Sunday, the sound of Tom and Quinn’s tubulum, a home-made musical instrument created from various lengths of PVC pipe mounted in a particle board frame, resonated through Pilgrim’s sanctuary. While singing, we were guided by Quinn and Tom’s spirited playing as they thwacked out a familiar refrain: “joyful music leads us onward in the triumph song of life.” It was joyful! From my vantage point, I could see broad smiles on faces all around the Sanctuary as the tubulum played. It was a little silly, too.

Our Palm Sunday service was designed to go “from silly to somber,” according to Pastor Laura, and it did, indeed, end on a somber note. The beginning of the service was lively, though. If you watch the recording, you can see and hear people passing the windows in a procession and then entering the Sanctuary with shouts of Hosanna, hosanna! During the sermon, we were reminded that our “odd parade” was an echo of Christ’s followers long ago who unashamedly and illogically stepped up and recognized Jesus, a humble man, as the Son of God. Pastor Laura called us to join the “ancient procession of bravery and hope” in our words and actions – even those that sometime seem a little silly.

The Apostle Paul writes about being fools for Christ. He countered and challenged the self-satisfaction of the people of Corinth; people who derived power from their wisdom and righteousness and boasted of their spiritual attainments. Early Christians were definitely ‘out there’, speaking boldly about ideas that were unpopular, suffering ridicule from all sides. They were willing, however, to suffer the insults because of their conviction. We continue this tradition of joyful, hope-filled foolishness, following a Teacher who taught that weakness is power and giving is receiving. Silly stuff! As Pastor Laura said on Palm Sunday, “We do silly things together for God.”

Early Easter morning, as the full moon set in the western sky, 37 ridiculously silly people gathered around Terry Deal’s fire in the Memorial Garden. Marci’s beautiful Easter frock gracefully flowed over her snow pants and pac boots. Terry and Kate offered lovely music, shaped by fingers stiff with cold. We sang, read, prayed, sat together in silence, and, ultimately, we paraded. We made a bundled-up, boot-shuffling odd parade through the snow into the building, calling out, Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed!

Join in the ancient procession of bravery and hope. Sing out with the silly, bold, awkward, or whimsical voice God gave you. Live each day foolishly trusting in the love that created us and surrounds us – with foolish faith. Make a joyful noise!

Spring is Sprung

By Susan Wordal

Easter season has been celebrated, but if you live in Montana, you wouldn’t know it by the weather this year. I keep seeing white stuff falling from the sky and get pictures from my FB friends with snow up to their knees and/or hips (depending on their height), and think “Winter in Montana, wait 5 minutes…the weather will change”!

But really, Montana weather has always been unpredictable. And right now, we could use a little more of the white stuff in the mountains to carry us through the summer months and the dreaded “fire season”. I find it odd that I have been praying for snow when everyone else seems to be praying for sunshine.

I miss the flowers that usually begin to poke their heads out of the ground this time of year (despite my lack of anything approaching a green thumb). The color is something which brightens the mood and lifts the spirit. I think that’s why we look forward to Spring and green grass. It’s the indicator that the light has come and new life is with us. The lengthening days and the blue of the sky, the white, fluffy clouds and the sound of birds signal new beginnings after the slumber of winter.

Those clear, sunny days, and the bird song which fills the air is still on the horizon. I am seeing more birds in the back yard these days. I hear more than just the sound of the doves and the magpies I’ve seen. And the last two quail hens are still visiting, and sometimes digging down through the snow to find the grass and stay warm. Of course, we are tossing out bird seed for all to share, so it’s no surprise that we have feathered visitors in our yard. I find myself looking forward to seeing what types of birds have come to visit. Just today, I saw some black birds with a streak of yellow/orange on their wings. I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen that type before, and I’m no ornithologist, so I’m not even sure what they are. But they were pretty. My kind of colors, you know?

I see spirits lifting as the quintessential signal of Spring, Easter Sunday, is celebrated. It was good to see more familiar faces in church, and see smiles and laughing eyes glancing around the room to see who was there. We are getting back into the groove of “Passing the Peace” or greeting our fellow congregants by getting up and moving during the service. Life is “getting back to normal” for some of us. It’s a good sign.

Spring has sprung, even if not literally in the flowers outside. But it has opened in our minds and our hearts and for that, we are truly blessed. The flowers will come, the grass will rise and green up again. Then I get to complain about how I’m allergic to fresh-mown grass whenever I mow the lawn. So, join me in welcoming the … “achoo!” … blessings of Spring.

Can I get an Alleluia?

Alleluia!

Community

by Kerry Williams

Lately I’ve been struggling with how large a circle to draw around myself of my connections and relationships. When my community is tight I feel so much love and support, not only directed toward me, but in the general sense that people are good and kind and take care of each other. I imagine that these close circles of relationships are replicated all over the world, and that bit by bit we are bringing peace and understanding to the planet, and growing spiritually as human beings. Even in the slightly wider circle of the Gallatin Valley, every person that I have a face-to-face conversation with seems to want to make the world a better place, whether we agree on the details of how to go about that or not. It is a good space for me to be in, to stay local and focus on personal interaction. But then I wonder whether I am willfully ignoring larger forces that can and do have a strong effect on the community that I care about, such as the situation that my coworker finds herself in as a single mom with unreliable childcare. I was in that industry as a new graduate, working toward high quality universal childcare, convinced that one more push in Congress and we’d have the issue solved, and yet here we are, 20 years on and after a pandemic that showed the gaping holes in that system, and nothing has changed. Should I be focusing on the bigger picture and making change at the state and national level? Am I being selfish by surrounding myself with the people and work and hobbies that bring me joy and give me hope? Because taking on the country’s social issues sounds exhausting and quite discouraging. And also confusing. I marvel at the fact that polls show the majority of U.S. citizens want to see changes in parental leave and childcare, in gun law safety, in environmental policy, in civil rights - and yet the news that surrounds us wants us to believe that there are divisions too wide to bridge. There are a few loud voices who shout down ideas that most of us support, and I wonder if spending my time enjoying my family and friends and neighbors enables those voices to go unchecked. If I’m at a backyard barbecue and not at the School Board meeting or the Capitol, am I betraying my priorities? And then I look even wider, at the global situation, and my sense of hope comes back. Seeing how the citizens of the world have responded to the invasion of Ukraine, sending support to those who need it and sending clear messages to their governments to stand up to this injustice, makes me feel that we are on the right track and that we can make a difference. Knowing that all the Ukrainians want is the chance to fill their backyards with those they love and chat around a hot grill makes me proud for the life I have built here in my own community. I am someone who cares for others and gives what I can to help when needed, and I am hopefully raising my kids to do the same. So here we are, back again, cherishing the tight circle. Are the daily activities that life throws our way (bad - doing taxes, going grocery shopping, cleaning the toilet - or good - getting a pedicure, having wine with a friend, playing with puppies) distractions that take us away from what we’re here to do, or are they the whole point of being here in the first place? I struggle with this daily, while doing my best to be there for the people and issues that I can help. Right now, I relish time with people that help me stay hopeful for the future and I pray that everyone finds their own supportive community, because that is my vision of a wonderful world. I hope this is enough.

No Easter Sunday without Good Friday

by Rev. Laura Folkwein

“Rainbows only come after the rain,” “Finish your dinner before you enjoy dessert,” “Finish your chores and then you can play.” I usually shrug through these sayings, so familiar that they fail to mean much. The general theme is that we often have to endure hard times to get back to good, or that slogging through some “yuck” is necessary before you get to enjoy the “yum” of life. A running buddy of mine used to remind me when I started to lag, “you will feel so good when it’s over.” It is true. The pride of accomplishment after hard work is worth the struggle. Sometimes, however, the hard stuff seems to pile up. Sometimes the suffering is distributed very unevenly and unfairly and there is no rainbow in sight.

The Christian practice of Holy Week--walking with Jesus through Jerusalem to the cross, is a time to remember our own griefs and to acknowledge all suffering as real and worthy of our care. Even if it is uncomfortable. I have heard some folks, especially those who are struggling mightily, say that they are grateful for Lent and Good Friday in church. Communal remembrances of our mortality and sorrow allow us to ALL feel sad and lost TOGETHER. No false cheerfulness or attunement to social norms of politeness are required as we experience the distress of the cross together. Sinking into the darkness of “Tenebrae” (Latin for darkness), in church can be a relief for some of us who are already there in the dark and usually feeling incredibly alone.

This season, I have found myself quite adamant, maybe even looking forward to observing Palm/Passion Sunday. I don’t want too many of us to skip from one high point of Palm Sunday with Jesus entering Jerusalem in a parade of his friends and followers, to the next high point of trumpets, lilies (floral trumpets) and the celebration of Easter. We must travel through the lonesome valley between palms and the empty tomb. The relief of good health or the pleasure of a sorrow-free moment is made all the sweeter for having been through a hard time. Though suffering is no requirement for our redemption or joy, the pain of this life is real and very necessary to attend to. We cannot thoroughly enjoy Easter morning without the depths of unknowing and sorrow that come with Good Friday. A somber Good Friday reminds us how to be together with one another in our pain. The hope and joy of Easter are even brighter because we have been to the cross. May you have a blessed Holy Week, beloveds.

Bozeman a City for the Elimination of Discrimination against Women and Girls

by Danielle Rogers

Over the last four years there has been a task force of individuals working diligently to pass a CEDAW Resolution in the City of Bozeman that would address issues impacting women and non-binary people in our community. This resolution would acknowledge the challenges women face in society and make a collective effort to declare Bozeman a city of CEDAW

Through the wonderful work of Jan Strout, Lei-anna Bertelsen, Carson Taylor and a group of volunteers of which I am a part of, our community has an opportunity to see the resolution passed in April through the Bozeman City Commissioners.

CEDAW ( The Center for the Elimination of all Forms of Discrimination Against Women) began in the 1970’s and was introduced at the United Nations as a way for countries to recognize the various inequalities women face, and asked for countries to declare a resolution to address the needs of all women.

The United States was one of the only industrialized nations to not sign the resolution. In the last few years women and men all over the country have chosen to enact a resolution on the municipal level. Many cities and towns have successfully implemented resolutions and now our town has the chance to see one adopted on April 5th.

I am so proud of our community, and I am encouraged by this important stance. As a Biracial African American and South Asian woman, I feel safer knowing our town is setting a precedent in stating it recognizes the specific cultural experiences of others, and wants to create a safer community where all women are safe, and feel welcome.

I pray for God’s wisdom and grace to be with us all, as this resolution goes before the Bozeman City Commissioners. I am a bit trepidatious as I have seen where recent conversations regarding diversity equity and inclusion have become a political way to divide us further and not a unifier. I pray God will work through the fear others may have and open the realization that we are all made in God’s image.

My Mother use to tell me God created her beautiful brown skin color with delight, just as God created all of our skin colors with purpose and delight. Recognizing the hardships a segment of the population faces does not create victims, it creates survivors. It allows us as a community to understand the real stories of women struggling to afford food, pay rent, and raise a family. It gives a voice to women currently living in violence, and lets them know they are not alone; we as a community see you and care about your protection. It embraces our transgender community and says, you have a place here, and your leadership is needed and valued.

At the heart of every tribe and community is a feeling of belonging, a longing for connection and feeling valued for the gifts you were given. As we enter further into this season of lent, I ask you to remember the women in your life for whom this resolution will bring comfort and for the many women in the future who will never know what it was like to live without one.

All the Sights I Did Not See

by Kirke Elsass

I’ve just returned from my first visit to the Kansas City area. The trip differed from how I acquaint myself with a new place when traveling alone, which I was not. The reason for the visit was introducing our toddler to my wife’s grandmother, the only living great-grandparent. Also in the KC metro were my wife’s great aunt and uncle, a retired Presbyterian minister, and their daughter as well as some family acquaintances.

I view travel as a way of expanding and renewing myself, and when solo I load my schedule with as many novel experiences as possible. In advance, I search Google Maps literally ad nauseum to identify foods, activities, and scenery as well as potential routes and modes of transportation from one to another. My independence allows this all to work out such that I do feel fuller after days of newness crammed into every half-hour.

Early in our visit, people suggested we do this or that unique to the area. We needed to see the Plaza; I might enjoy the National World War I Museum or the historic Union Station; our daughter might be just old enough to love Science City. We saw none of those places. We did squeeze in a barbecue date as a couple and a family trip to the Kansas City Zoo, both unlike anything in Bozeman. But mostly we either visited in living rooms or rested in a hotel built to the mold of hundreds others across the country, and getting from place to place meant driving wide highways lined with all the national chains you know well.

It might surprise you that I nonetheless came away from this trip feeling expanded. For one thing, having never previously met Mindy’s great aunt and uncle I was struck by their genuine love and hospitality. My sense of family grew immediately. But the other expansion became most apparent on our ride back to the KC airport, when Mindy’s great aunt and uncle made clear their profoundly open-minded ideas about faith and ministry. Despite a career of leading congregations, they exhibited a humble and generous vision of what Christianity can be.

Feel free to ask me what downtown Kansas City looks like. I won’t have an answer, but I also won’t resent the reminder of what the trip did not entail. The constraints on my travel that prevented seeing the sights opened other opportunities for witnessing love, decency, and growth in the people right around me. That was worth the trip.

On Living Truth (Sometimes)

by Mindy Misener

There is a difference between believing something to be true and being invaded by Truth, capital T. Believing in truth is like learning a beautiful dance, even being able to perform it well. Being invaded by Truth means you’ve forgotten that what you are doing is called dancing. Now each shift of your body is holy. You feel the blessing of space to move in. And you are sure that your movement blesses the space in return.

I’m writing all of this because just this morning I went from holding a truth in my head to living it with my whole self. I don’t need to tell you what this truth was. Better yet, it could have been any of the following: There is hope. Life is painful. We are loved. Darkness is not the enemy. Attention yields clarity. Everything connects. Everything passes away. Mercy is better than judgment.

I could go on, but you get the gist. You could even add your own examples. The thing is, I know I would agree with you on your list and then go on with my day, more or less unchanged. This is the default: to think that understanding a truth on an intellectual level is the same as really, really knowing it, deep in our bones.

It isn’t. Intellectual understanding isn’t bad, but it’s not the whole deal. It’s more of a stopgap—or better yet a signpost appearing out of the fog when there’s not much else to see.

I use the word “invaded” to describe the arrival of Truth because I want to emphasize that we cannot summon, demand, entice, or manufacture such encounters. We can’t even earn them! Infuriatingly, figures like the good-for-nothing Prodigal Son embraced by his father on the road home are just as likely, if not more likely, to encounter Truth as is the respectable man next door.

I didn’t deserve the peace Truth gave me today. Actually, I’m already sure this peace won’t last. I’ve never had Truth take up permanent residence in my soul. The journey is a cycle of forgetting and re-learning, not a steady march toward perfection. There are far more hours of muddle and muck than there are moments of glory.

This, though, is where faith comes in. See, I don’t need faith this morning. I don’t need a poem or sermon or song to see me through.

Tomorrow morning, though, will be different. Tomorrow morning I’ll have to hoist what faith I can muster and continue on again. Tomorrow morning I’ll need that poem or sermon or song to remind me of what doesn’t even need saying today.

The Image of God

by Bruce Smith

Genesis 1: 27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

A recent Guideposts article included a reference to a Jewish proverb, “Before every person there marches an angel proclaiming, ‘Behold, the image of God’”. I was struck by this since, dare I admit, it’s sometimes a bit difficult for me to see that image. While discussing just such an instance with a Jewish friend, he introduced the concept of Mussar, a Jewish spiritual practice with guidance to live a meaningful and ethical life. This practice includes the recognition that we each have unique spiritual challenges that need effort to overcome.

Thinking about that conversation I realized how easily we can fall into the habit of seeing less than the image of God in people around us; people we don’t like, folks who think differently from us, those that make us uneasy. Yours truly being guilty more than he’d like to admit. But thinking about our calling as Christians, I realize that meeting that challenge may entail practicing a bit more of mussar effort.

Our guidance is pretty clear. We are told to love our neighbor as ourselves. Jesus’ actions repeatedly highlighted this. And those actions were pretty remarkable! He responds to a raging madman, assists a blatantly fallen woman, offers salvation to a despicable (as viewed in His day) Samaritan woman alien, calls Matthew, a tax collector, to be a disciple and heals outcast lepers. He surely saw the image of God in those which His society easily dismissed or even rejected.

You may wish to join me in my mussar effort to practice seeing the image of God in all people I meet. Perhaps we all need to use the greeting namaste, the spirit in me greets the spirit in you, with the people around us. In doing so we’d recognize that everyone is an image of God and has His Spirit within.