Category: Essays

Although summer is slowly turning to autumn, the season of Easter has been on my mind. A few years ago, I was in California for Holy Week and my dear friend Susan invited me to a Palm Sunday service at her church in Pasadena. I went to St. James’ in the evening—a sparsely attended service lit mainly by the glow of candles.

I took my seat next to Susan in an old, wooden pew and looked up at the light fixture above me. The light fixture above me was identical to the ones at St. Bartholomew’s, where I went to church back home. The familiarity caused me to grin as I sang.

Standing up during the rest of the songs, I allowed my hands to grasp the back of the pew in front of me, feeling each and every crack in the smooth wood. I wondered how many people had clinched the pew because of how lonely they were, just waiting to hear something—anything—from God…

Click to continue reading The Slow and Inefficient Work of God on Relevant Magazine.

How Much Love Does It Take to Matter?

The sun did not sympathize with the winter season. What should have been alive was dead, and the only green we saw was sewn into the fabric wraps women wore around their midsections as they carried their babies along the dirt road. Three of us walked in a dusty heat from the footbridge across a dry riverbed to Lindiwe’s homestead at the edge of the village.

Lavumisa is one of the most remote rural villages on the southeast side of Swaziland, a South African country unfortunately known for its gruesome AIDS statistics rather than its grandiose mountain landscapes, warm hearts or flawless starry nights. Swazis are forgotten people in a forgotten country, and the more removed someone is from the capital city of Mbabane, the more forgotten they become.

At a church service the night before, my missionary friends, Melissa and Jim, had learned about Lindiwe from a local nurse named Lisa. Lindiwe developed breast cancer two years ago, and as the country’s standard treatment offered, she had a mastectomy on her right side. There is no chemotherapy or radiation available in Swaziland. Nobody can afford it, and the hospitals don’t offer it.

Lindiwe is a traditional Swaziland mother who lives in a stick-and-stone mud hut with a thatch roof. Most of her family lives around her in similar structures, but only one was to be found inside her home when we arrived…..

Click to continue reading How Much Love Does it Take to Matter on RelevantMagazine.com

There was a season in life when my prayers included asking God to hold me—physically. I wanted to feel arms around me, keeping me safe and helping me not feel lonely in the nighttime hours, once the day quieted and the distractions faded with the sun.

I am a creature of habit, and most nights my routine was the same: read, turn off my lamp, pray, feel alone, pray again, wait, resign and eventually float off to a restless sleep. My twin-sized bed was as big as the ocean, and I was lost in the middle of it. Even in Tennessee’s summer heat, I rolled myself into as many blankets as I could stand so I would feel something—anything—surrounding me.

My prayers were not answered in the way I wanted, and I never understood why…

Click to continue reading The Many Faces of Mercy

The Power of Confession

Fear and loneliness are two inseparable lovers with a tragic common denominator: they seek to destroy the Kingdom within.

The Kingdom within. As believers, together we share this sacred bond. The Kingdom unites us—makes us one body. We need each other to function, to live, to thrive and to be Christ’s love and mercy here on earth. We are assured this communion will be challenging. The Gospel of John says the enemy is only out to defeat us. He is focused. He is attentive.

Fear and loneliness permeate the soul of our world. A recent survey conducted by the American Sociological Review noted that a quarter of Americans say they don’t have a close friend to confide in. When you add on the culturally imposed (and widely erroneous) requirements of “being a good Christian” today, I imagine that percentage goes up for those in religious circles. A community of believers should be the safest place one could turn and admit weaknesses. But in a world where holiness is based on a scale of morality and being faithful means never having doubts, it’s no wonder we keep our mouths shut and our masks on…

Click to continue reading The Power of Confession

The Joy in Holding on to Grief

On July 3, 2012, eight days before my friend Jay Williams turned 32 years old, he was buried in Lebanon Cemetery in Plains, Georgia. The air was still and thick with southern humidity, and sweat collected in the small of my back under the layers of my black dress. My friends and I stood on the brittle grass of the cemetery, waiting in line to say goodbye to Jay one last time. We dodged the sun by shuffling in and out of each other’s shadows and swatted at clouds of gnats with paper fans provided by the local funeral home.

In the summer of 2010, Jay, myself, and 15 other people rode our bicycles from San Diego to Myrtle Beach, raising money and awareness for an organization that empowers people to fight the HIV/AIDS and water crises in Africa. Jay was the first cyclist to arrive at the church that would send us off. As I pulled into the church parking lot in San Diego, I saw a short, skinny guy with a tan wearing a straw cowboy hat riding his red bicycle in circles. Was he one of the team cyclists? Or some vagabond traveler who perhaps illegally acquired a nice road bike? Was he drunk? He looked so happy—too happy…

Click here to read The Joy in Holding on to Grief

Anne has signed on with Relevant Magazine to be a columnist in their “God” section every other Tuesday. We will also post a link here after the column is up over on their site.

Those Things That Will Not Ever Leave  is Anne’s inaugural column. Below is an excerpt and link.

The big blue house on Indian Lake Trail was for sale.

Five bedrooms, a perfect view of the west shores of Lake Michigan and an open living area full of furniture from a 2007 Restoration Hardware catalog weren’t enough to hold together the bonds of holy matrimony. While the unhappy couple waited for the three-story home to sell, they rented it out to my friend.

It’s Wednesday evening, and the sun is slowly turning the sky the color of a mimosa. I drove two hours north from my own blue house to visit my friend and his family, spending half a day clumsily paddling the White River in a flimsy orange kayak and achieving a splotchy sunburn my friend’s daughter—who is sitting next to me as I write—comments on by saying, “Whoa. That looks weird.”

For three months last year, I lived in California, only a few miles from the beach. As I walk down the beach barefoot in Michigan on this Wednesday, the way the sand falls into the crevices between my toes reminds me of my beach crawls on the West Coast, each minuscule grain smoothed by centuries of water, slowly and inefficiently.

The waves are pulled from the middle of the water, seemingly created from nothing and growing as they roll toward my feet. They are loud and threatening, hissing as if to pull me back with them, only to acquiesce by the time they hit my ankles and create a …..

Click to continue…

Over the past two weeks, I shared two essays I wrote privately during Holy Week (when I still lived in California). So often I get distracted after the season has passed and simply forget how profoundly reflecting on the Cross can be. Two weeks ago was the first. Last week was the second. Here is the third and final.

____

Maundy Thursday.

I had heard those words before, but even after spending most of my life in church, I had no idea what they meant. During Holy Week, I told my friend Susan I’d attend all the services at her church with her. When Thursday rolled around, I realized I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.

I remember the first time I went to St. B’s in Nashville. I had never been to a liturgical church in my life, at least, not during a service. The first time I attended a service, I nervously clenched my program. When do we kneel? Will people look at me strangely if I don’t make the sign of the cross? Do I dip the bread in the cup or do I have to drink from the cup after all those other people have touched it? Can I even receive communion here? I was a member at a non-denominational church and was even an ordained and licensed minister…but not in an Episcopal church. At the churches I had been to and worked at in my adult life, communion appeared to be a programming element. “Oh, we have ten extra minutes in the service here – let’s do communion.” It wasn’t a weekly thing.

I was so nervous.

The same nervousness passed over me as I drove to the Maundy Thursday services last week. I quickly read through the history of Maundy Thursday on Wikipedia – summaries of different interpretations hit my screen. Foot-washing, giving money to the poor, eucharist, stripping of the altar….

Ohhhh-kay…?

I decided to just flow with whatever was going to happen.

After some prayers and readings, one of the junior bishops got up and talked about the foot washing prior to the Lord’s Supper.

Most of us, myself included, have always seen the act as one of service – Jesus putting himself in a lowly position to perform a menial task.

And then…

Plot. Twist.

He pulled out a verse in John to focus on.The one where Simon Peter refuses to let Jesus wash his feet, and Jesus’ response to him.

No,” Peter protested, “you will never ever wash my feet!”

Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”

Simon Peter had a point, and I’d probably have the same reaction. “Sorry, Jesus. You’re, you know…JESUS…and I am not going to let you wash my feet.” He felt unworthy to have his leader, someone who he saw as the coming messiah, get down and clean his dirty feet.

How often do we feel the same way?

How often do we not want to let people in (or Jesus for that matter) because we feel we are burdening them with our dirty feet?

***

I tried to hold them back, but I couldn’t.

Tears started running down my face. Especially over the last year, I have felt like a walking weight. I’ve often likened it to thrashing in the middle of the ocean trying not to drown while my friends are all swimming to shore…I grab on to someone, we swim for a while, I see the shore, and I try to swim harder. I don’t want to push any of my friends down along the way but I need to get to dry land. I don’t feel worthy enough to be carried much longer. And so much of the shame and guilt from my past has me keeping God’s all-restoring, all-perfecting love at arms’ length.

“No, Jesus, you can’t wash my feet.

I’m too…

Broken.

Hopeless.

Confused.

Aimless.

You should have given up on me by now.”

“Let me wash your feet.”

“But…”

“Let me wash your feet. If you desire me, you will let me wash your feet.”

***

The church leaders up front started pulling out bowls and water.

What?

We were going to have a foot-washing ceremony, in church?

But there are so many of us.

This is going to take forever.

Where am I supposed to put my shoes?

What?

Wash my feet?

No.

No.

No.

“Go, Anne. Go.”

I know God’s voice when I hear it.

I made my way to the front.

I pulled my red shoes off and tucked my socks inside. I sat in a chair and waited. Finally, I walked to the bowl and sat down in front of it.

The junior bishop dipped his towel into the bowl as I placed my feet in it. He said a prayer of blessing over me, thanking God for the “path he has placed me on.” I continued to cry. If only he knew my path, maybe he wouldn’t say such crazy things. Or maybe he does know? Who knows. Another leader dried my feet off. I walked back to my shoes, picked them up, and made my way back to my seat. I placed my arms on the pew in front of me and laid my head them, quietly crying.

“Why do you still love me? How can anyone still love me? I feel so helpless.”

I continued to cry…pushing away the love that was trying to envelop me. To be lavished on me.

“No…no…no…you can’t wash my feet.”

“I already have…”

As the choir sang and the rest of the congregation had their feet washed, I realized how hard it is for me to choose to receive love.

But receiving love is just as important as giving it.

***

After we were all seated, the Bishop and other leaders began silently removing everything from the altar. Every flower, every cloth, every kneeling cushion. Even the very cross that had been draped with a sheer white cloth was removed. And they began washing the altar with towels and water. The candles which remain lit at all times were put out.

I thought about what it must have been like for the disciples and Jesus to clear the table after the Lord’s Supper. How they probably stripped away the table cloth and the plates of food and the chalices of wine and the bread crumbs.

It represents the end of an era. An end of a time.

And it was preparing the way.

A way of death for life.

A way of life for us.

They finished stripping the altar – it was completely bare.

Without notice, all of the lights went out.

A door slammed.

Some people gasped. I jumped, startled.

There was no cue, but we all filed out of the sanctuary. Nobody said a word.

It was finished.

***

Jesus knew what waited for him the day after the Final Supper. We knew what this meant.

I drove home in complete silence.

I felt like the person I loved the most was dying because of something I did.

It wasn’t fair.

“Why? How?”

I’ve spent most of my life reflecting on Easter, the death and the resurrection, and have yet to reconcile it. I know it was what was meant to be. And who am I to take his cup?

I just need to stop trying to rationalize love.

And I need to let him kneel before me, and wash my dirty, messed up, broken-hearted, fearful but eternally grateful feet.

Over the next three weeks, I will be posting three essays I wrote privately during Holy Week (when I still lived in California). So often I get distracted after the season has passed and simply forget how profoundly reflecting on the Cross can be.

____

Holy Week Reflections – Part 1 – Sunset

Yesterday, I went to the ocean.

Given the fact I currently reside in the nether regions of California, one would think the ocean existing ten miles from my house would somehow be capable of luring me to its shore at least two or three times a week. However, in the two months I have lived here, I have only made it to its salty border three times – and one of those was out of sheer determination since it was pouring, and I stayed in my car squinting over Lookout Point trying to find some hint of the Pacific through the blinding rain.

Yesterday, it was almost ninety degrees and sunny. I know the ocean and I will not always live in such proximity, and with all my chores done and bills paid, there was no excuse for me not to pay my respect. I took a winding road to Sunset Beach, a flat beach known for its great surfing, to watch the sun plummet into the waters.

I was in my typical weekend uniform: a grey t-shirt and jeans and flip flops. With each drop of the sun, the temperature became cooler and the salty breeze moved up my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The smooth sand climbed off the ground and ran toward the crevices between my toes, each grain being welcomed as I slid my way across the shoreline.

As with every sunset I intentionally pursue, I captured a few photos on my phone. Two children played with kites at the top of the beach, a few surfers waited to see if the waters would give them one final wave, and with each push of the climbing tide, what used to be a teepee of firewood from a bonfire began to drift back west into the ocean.

After most of the sun had disappeared, I made my way back up to my car, parked at the top of the hill. I turned it around and drove slowly through this uniquely beach-style community, and in typical “Anne Jackson Must Plan Everything” style, I began to schedule out the next day: Palm Sunday.

Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week, and in the most recent years, has become a marker for me, much like Advent. While I worked in protestant churches, Holy Week was more like Hell Week (with all due respect to my protestant church friends). Let me clarify: In the specific churches I served in, it was as if a tsunami were arriving Easter Sunday (the tsunami being twice our normal attendance looking for a spectacular show). So here comes the Tsunami and it was my job to tell everyone about it and make sure nobody died. Obviously, as believers we are all entrusted to stewarding every moment we are given to shine God’s glory in every situation (Easter Sunday and all its festivities included) however, I (emphasis on I) was never able to align my duties with my faith and the reverence such a week should demand. Ironic, isn’t it? On the other hand, there are many of my friends who serve in non-liturgical churches who do so with such admirable fervor filled with integrity. I just couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t until I began attending St. Bartholomew’s in Nashville, at the invitation of my manager (and then continued encouragement from several of my friends who attended) that I began to crack the door open on what it was I had been missing. Sure, I always knew it was something — but I never knew what.

And please note: this is not an essay on denominational preference. I am just a girl who grew up Baptist and almost exclusively worked in Baptist churches until I found community at St. B’s – not theology. And there’s no denying that even for liturgical churches like St. B’s, extra “work” goes into Holy Week. I mean, where does anyone find all those palm leaves for Palm Sunday? In California, it makes sense — but in Tennessee? Is there a catalog?

With the liturgy, doing what has been done for centuries and having the Spirit guide us newly each and every year reduces the “show” and puts the emphasis for me, personally, where it should be: back at the altar where I can commune and be reminded of the blood and the body; the brokenness in me which has died (what was, now, and is to come). Those things were crucified with Christ and this week, I remember that with a heavy and grateful heart. And out of that heart comes joy overflowing. Abundant. Ready to give and share with others.

If I’m lucky, I’ll have experienced around 29,000 sunsets in my life. 29,000 sunrises too. And not to be morose, but I’m getting close to the halfway point. As I drove away from Sunset Beach last night and the final rays of light merged into darkness, I couldn’t help but wonder “What were You thinking the week before you died?”

If I knew I had one week to live, even if I fully understood the reason for my life to begin with, what would I be thinking with each passing sunset?

Did each minute for you go by even quicker? When the temperature dropped and the night settled in, did your heart beat just a little faster, knowing you were one day closer to the end and yet at the same time, the beginning? The divine humanity that we’re told about in stories of you knowing the weight of the burden you carried doesn’t leave me doubting that there was some kind of holy fear within you. Did you close your eyes and anticipate what each stripe of a leather whip would feel like as it tore through your skin? Did you wonder how heavy the cross would be, and how it would feel to have the sharp edges of old wood bury itself into your flesh? Did you dream? Did you sleep at all?

Today is Palm Sunday. I am not at St. B’s with the church family I have come to love, but later this evening I will be at a friend’s church as we will participate in Sacramentum. Sacramentum is an experimental emergent Eucharistic service that aims to bridge the gap between ancient liturgy and modern life through the art of music, media, and setting.

Yes, this is “just another Sunday.” But on this particular Sunday my heart is quieted, and focused. Focused on what has come that has been forgiven and crucified. On what is now and the grace in which I abide in and Christ who lives in me. And on what is to come, in hope, and glory eternal.

“What were you thinking?”

That’s what I’ll be thinking about this week.