I had the opportunity to give the sermon at St. Luke's this morning, the little episcopal parish that has become home to me. Here's what I shared...
From our Psalm this morning: “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High abides in the shadow of the Almighty… I will say of the Lord, You are my refuge and my stronghold, my God, in whom I put my trust.… He will cover you with his feathers and you shall find refuge under his wings.”
I have 57 birds at home. They aren’t alive. I mean, they’re not dead. They’re made of, oh, clay and cloth and copper and wood and glass. They’re painted bright colors and subdued colors, they’ve been fired in a kiln or woven and held together with thread and wire and glue. They greet me as I head up the creaky stairs into my little place on SE 98th Ave, and you’ll find them in nearly every room of my house. I’d like to think it’s not the first thing you’d notice if you come to visit me, but with 57 of them so far, I might be mistaken about that. Birds on the piano, on little shelves and sills, on my bedside table, dangling in doorways, on every bookcase, on the little cedar chest in my spare room that I’ve made into a little altar space where I keep some things that invite me into stillness, where I steal away for some intentional quiet. They’re everywhere. Except in the bathroom. That’s just tacky.
Did you ever start a little collection? You know, just a little something, a memento, a trinket. And pretty soon word gets out and friends and family give you that same little something for every occasion! Well, that’s sorta my story. Except, in my story, I am both the receiver AND the giver. I’ve always got my eye out for a sweet, fat, funny little bird to bring home. Saturday Market, little hipster boutiques in NE Portland, gift shoppes at museums, funky Art Festivals, tiny tucked-away places in other towns. Kmart.
“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High abides in the shadow of the Almighty…”
I didn’t mean to become the fake bird lady of SE 98th Ave. It’s been happening for a long time, it’s happening still.
About 10 years ago, I bought my little yellow house with the purple door. A sweet little place in a slightly frumpy neighborhood. The house I could afford. It’s near the base of Kelly Butte in SE Portland. Now, if you aren’t familiar with Kelly Butte, I’m not surprised. She’s the Cinderella of the ‘local’ buttes: Cinderella before she met the fairy god-mother. Cinderella before she was whisked away in an enchanted pumpkin coach. Cinderella before she danced in a beautiful gown with Prince Charming at the ball. Kelly Butte is the scruffy, disheveled and ignored Cinderella, doing all the scrubbing and sweeping and getting no appreciation at all. She’s no Mt. Tabor, Powell Butte or Mt. Scott.
But when I moved into my little place near the base of Kelly Butte, I loved that every morning I woke up in her shelter and shadow, I loved the way that God showed off in the autumn with the kaleidoscope of changing leaves, and I loved meeting the neighbors who make Kelly Butte their refuge. Birds. Everywhere. Birds. Swallows, hawks, jays, hummingbirds, swifts and wrens and finches. Crazy, strong, sweet, funny, fragile, scrappy birds. A morning walk with my dog Maggie is like listening in on choir practice: the warm-ups, the cantor and response, the grand cantata.
“I will say of the Lord, You are my refuge and my stronghold, my God, in whom I put my trust...”
When I was 9 years old, my dad, who I love, embroiled my mom, my two older sisters and my little brother in the worst kind of clichéd ‘TV-movie of week’ melodrama. He left us for a waitress in a diner.
Beyond the shock of that abandonment, and the fact that I can count on a couple of fingers the times he came to visit after he left us, he died of cancer within 3 years at the age of 38. We’re all shaped by the losses we suffer, the arrows that are flung, the terrors that stalk. What my ‘9-year old heart when he left us’ and my ‘12-year old heart when he died’ decided, was that I was not securely held. That what I thought was safe, wasn’t safe at all. That I was leave-able.
So maybe now you are thinking, um, yea, can we go back to that funny part about the birds?
Enter Selma. How can I say this with love? Selma was a piece of work. She was a 40-ish something single lady with a perfectly manicured yard and a cat named John. She was a Sunday School teacher at a little church not far from here that swooped my family up into its arms and embraced us as this thing that was not supposed to be happening to a nice church-going family was, indeed, happening. She sang in the choir and had a ferocious vibrato. She wore bright red lipstick and woolen jackets with gaudy broaches and a different bad wig every Sunday. She had a red one, a blonde one, and two shades of brown. I was in Selma’s class when things around us were crumbling after dad left us, when we were feeling our way out of that wreckage. Selma, besides tending carefully to her lawn, her cat and her wigs, was a drill sergeant about one thing when it came to her students: Bible Verse Memorization. KING JAMES Bible Verse Memorization. So a long time ago, when my little girl heart and spirit were breaking under the strain of scrambling around for security and a safe-hold, Selma had us memorizing Psalm 91.
I can still quote much of it today. And so, when I would walk up the street to school, or lay in my bed with my menagerie of stuffed animals, or when I would noodle around on the piano, or sit on the couch by my mom and rest my head against her shoulder, I had these words to keep me good company: “You who dwell in the shelter of the Most High abide in the shadow of the Almighty… I will say of the Lord, You are my refuge and my stronghold, my God, in whom I put my trust.… He will cover you with his feathers and you shall find refuge under his wings. You shall not be afraid of any terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day. Because you are bound to me in love, I will deliver you. I will protect you because you know my name. You shall call upon me and I will answer you, I will be with you in trouble. With long life will I satisfy you and show you my salvation.”
The arrows, they fly and we are pierced by them. The terrors, they stalk and find us vulnerable. We leave one another in a thousand ways.What did you decide when you were nine? What did you decide when you were twelve? What did you decide when you were left? What did you decide half a lifetime ago? What did you decide this morning?
This community gathered here today, and all the communities we’re part of outside these walls, and the communities that ripple out from there to the ends of the earth: we are strong and fragile, we are sweet and scrappy. We all wear this skin, this breakable, vulnerable, leave-able skin. We all have hearts longing to be known, and if we lean into one another only, the truth is, none of us are safe, none of us are securely held, and all of us are leave-able, I mean, look around.
I have 57 birds at home. They remind me that God is no stranger to my losses, that God knows how and where I break, where I am pierced, where I am afraid. They remind me that God was present a long time ago in a little church not far from here, where a crazy Sunday School teacher in a bad wig made me memorize Psalm 91, Psalm 91, where I found this truth to live into – this truth that is taking me a lifetime to live into, and maybe like you, that ‘living into’ sometimes feels like believing, sometimes like wrestling. Sometimes it feels like despairing, and sometimes it feels like stillness. That truth is this: there is a place to find safety, there is a place to be held, there is a place where we won’t be left. And that place is the sheltering refuge of God’s love and mercy.
I was raised in the Baptist church, and there is a hymn from Psalm 91 that was in our hymnal, we sang it often. My dad, like Selma, was a singer, and I am pretty sure that in different times and different churches, both my dad and Selma sang this song over and again. The lyrics are these:
Under his wings I am safely abiding,
Though the night deepens and tempests are wild
Still I can trust him, I know he will keep me
He has redeemed me and I am his child
Under his wings, under his wings,
Who from his love can sever?
Under his wings, my soul shall abide
Safely abide forever
“He will cover us with his feathers and we shall find refuge under his wings.”
What is being covered, what is being offered refuge? The soul, the spirit, the heart that longs to be known, inside this breakable, vulnerable, leave-able skin.
I lean into the mystery and wonder of God, and let myself imagine that under God’s wings, there is an imprint that is shaped like you, that is shaped like me, that is shaped like all the world, where we are being held. In this refuge, in this shelter, in this stronghold, we are being shown our salvation.
It’s been happening for a long time. It’s happening still. Amen.
