Scripture: Zechariah 8: 4-8

Thus says the Lord: There shall yet be old men and old women in the squares of the city, each with staff in hand because of their great age. And the squares of the city shall be crowded with boys and girls playing in its squares. Thus says the Lord God of hosts: Though it will seem impossible to the remnant of this people in these days, should it also seem impossible to me? I will save my people from the east and from the west; and I will bring them to dwell in Jerusalem. They shall be my people and I will be their God, in faithfulness and in righteousness, in truth and in sincerity. — I love this scripture because it is so radically ordinary. There is no transfiguration or doves descending from on high - just a park where children are running and screaming and making those sounds where you are not sure if they are happy or injured. A park where people are relaxing and old folks are holding court. It is extraordinarily every day. Read it again.

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Zechariah 8: 4-8

Thus says the Lord: There shall yet be old men and old women in the squares of the city, each with staff in hand because of their great age. And the squares of the city shall be crowded with boys and girls playing in its squares. Thus says the Lord God of hosts: Though it will seem impossible to the remnant of this people in these days, should it also seem impossible to me? I will save my people from the east and from the west; and I will bring them to dwell in Jerusalem. They shall be my people and I will be their God, in faithfulness and in righteousness, in truth and in sincerity.

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I love it so much that I chose this scripture from a minor prophet as my grounding scripture at ordination. Everyone else in my ordination class chose a scripture worthy of memorizing, something you could tattoo on your body or at least on your heart. Most of them were the verses you might expect, and some are the verses you see on signs at stadiums (which frankly is a totally different issue). I considered sharing my favorite woman in the Bible, but I thought the only woman being ordained reading, “Even the dogs eat the crumbs from the Master’s table” would make people say, “wow, she’s a bitch,” and most of them would not mean that in a cool way. So I submitted my sermon on Jesus learning from this badass woman and chose for my scripture one that had a deep place in my heart from the moment Dr. Neilson shared it in context during Hebrew Bible.

I love this scripture because it is ordinary, so ordinary. It is about a public park where the old folks are comfortable and the kids can play. We know what that looks like and we know what that sounds like. It looks like chasing balls and folks chatting and resting and relaxing and maybe someone “with staff in hand” holding court or rolling their eyes or complaining about “kids these days.” It is a picture of paradise painted by a minor prophet (because apparently getting your voice in the Bible does’t mean you made it as a major league prophet) and it comes from a community that can’t actually see any of that yet. He paints this image for folks surrounded by rubble and division and likely struggling to see a way forward. They have returned from exile. This is their dream, it is the hope their fathers held and it was the resilience their grandmothers dreamed when they were taken away from their home. And now they are there and the city they saw in their dreams is yet rubble. The Babylonians destroyed the temple, they charred the earth, ruined the vineyards and the fields and not one stone was left upon another and in their absence and in their exile, nothing really changed. Repairs are not a priority when you may starve and you just need to survive and are living with trauma. The people have returned with grand plans of rebuilding and they soon realize just how much work, care, and sacrifice this is going to be. And to make it even more difficult, the folks with the most resources start building the stuff they want to build first (which you might have guessed) was not the public space that everyone would need. The community projects have slowed, the wall that would keep the city safe and the temple (which is the hub of faith and community) are not getting attention, time, and resources (which may be a kin to not wanting pay your taxes). There is fighting and selfishness and the folks who came back from exile seem entitled to run the show. It is so hard that some of them are wishing they never left the city, Babylon. Even if it wasn’t their own, at least it was a city.

This is the space where the prophet Zechariah speaks these extraordinary-ordinary words. Hope is distant, tensions are high, they are forgetting their very existence is resistance to empire and he gathers the people to proclaim what could be. I imagine the folks closing their eyes as he speaks of God gathering the scattered, like a Shepherd, and bringing them to dwell. I imagine the marvel as he paints the image of a city square where they can grow old, they will be safe enough to grow old. And a city square filled with children means folks feel confident about bringing new babies into the world. He paints a picture where their grandchildren can play and watch their own children grow up. He paints the picture of what could be and he does not shame them for their selfishness, “how dare you not build God’s home?” and he doesn’t give them ugly nationalism of building the biggest wall or a temple so dazzling folks will travel from far and wide to marvel at its presence. He paints the picture of a park and what most of us will miss is that the most vulnerable people are at the center. Elders with canes and children playing are safe to be who they are and he says this to people who know that in the ancient world when empires invade, those folks are not even worth taking captive, these are the ones killed first. But in this vision of paradise, Zechariah says let’s build a city where children are safe to be children and elders can live their days in peace without worry or fear or want. He is saying let’s build a future where production isn’t the only value; these children and these elders matter to us even if they are not harvesting the grain or baking the bread or ordering life. And he is saying to people who heard the stories of violence, we will build a community where you can grow old and a community where people will have babies because they face the future unafraid. This is a city park, a city square; the vulnerable are the center and the focus isn’t on might or power or wall or impressing the surrounding towns with their golden temple.

I feel this is the call of the church and the heart we carry into the everyday work of the Abbey, work that is sacred and ordinary. The work of making space for folks, whether they want a cup of coffee or the love of communion. I call this space a living sanctuary because, unlike a sanctuary that is active an hour or two a week, making space for ordinary everyday life is what we privilege in our choices, or at least try to. When we started the Abbey, I was given statistics about our community and, thanks be to God, we had already started the effort because the data was not encouraging. The data gave this clear impression: no one here really wanted a church and everyone in a two-mile radius of our location had a high distrust of clergy. And I get that. Frankly, I have a high distrust of clergy myself. We have a history of violence, and not just gruesome crusades and vial inquisitions, but white supremacy and anti-semitism abound. We have placed the patriarchy over equity and Christians have sent their own children away like God doesn’t love them just as they are. The church is a mess and to make matters worse, it is full of people who are awkward and prone to arguments over tables or carpet colors, who send mean e-mails and have so little grace it is astounding. We have lost our “why” and our way over and over and over and yet I believe with all my heart, we still have work to do in this place.

See I could give you stories about the power of community and the power of being rooted in a tradition. Stories of the pulse lowering when reciting the Lord’s Prayer, the gift of songs that make us bold, and how faith can inspire our best selves to grow. When I wrote my Credo, which is a culminating systematic theology paper with eight chapters, my thesis (the point of my work) was, “What is the Christianity I would teach my daughter, my woman-child sister-friend?” This language came from my love of womanist and feminist theologians and it may not be what I would use today or, if I did, I might have said my cis-ter, not just my sister, to be clear. I wrote what would I teach my daughter, my woman-child sister-friend before I could even dream of Lila’s existence; there were too many obstacles to even dream her name. So I wrote this thinking of all the harm and violence and oppression done in God’s name and how do we make the church safe for those most vulnerable? I also wrote this thinking of my one year old niece, Samantha, wondering would she be 28 the first time she heard a pronoun for God other than “He" or would we do better? I wrote it thinking of my Grandmas and my Great-Grandmas and how they were asked to bring the dish for the fellowship meals and the salads for the funerals, but were never asked to preach or lead or chair a committee. I wrote it thinking of my Dad and my Grandfathers and my brother and how this toxic masculinity required them to be so tough and measured strength in a way that didn’t really make a person strong; how the little boxes we made lifted the patriarchy and told them to stuff their feelings down. And I wrote it thinking of my youngest brother and every kid in every church who needed to hear the scripture about David, the most famous King of all, loving (and I mean LOVING) Jonathan. I wrote it thinking of all the harm of the church and everyone who is vulnerable. I wrote it wondering if there can be a Christianity that you don’t have to shed off a bunch of toxic baggage, but get to love who you are and grow up an empowered justice seeker from the very start. What is the Christianity that would be safe and empowering for all of us?

During the Pandemic I have watched Lila (my seven-year-old daughter) play even more than usual and creative dramatic play is always happing in her world. It is always an expression of what she is seeing and dreaming and struggling with. I have watched her play hospital and I have watched her give vaccines to a waiting room of stuffed animals and dolls of all sizes. One day I walked in on the end of what was “Abbey Church.” A gathering of little figurines ranging from the very formal Princess Tiana to a polar bear, they were gathered around what I have decided was her creed. There were three lines in Kindergarten spelling. The first line said, “God is the Queen of Kindness." Below this Lila wrote, “God is so good, we rely on Her.” And finally, she had an action statement, “Make the world Better.” Right there in that moment I thought, “get a banner… mission accomplished, Urban Abbey!” Because of you and because we gather to sing songs and hear the stories of the Bible together, Lila is learning a Christianity that she won’t have to shed off later. She is growing up with a diversity of images for God, not just the one who looks like a Buff White Santa. She sees God as goodness, kindness and compassion and not a scary, judgmental angry force. She names a God upon whom we rely and she names that because she knows people that she can rely on right here, she can always find a little extra care or a little extra love whenever she is in this space (even if it’s while her Mom is preaching). She wrote this little creed because of the songs we sing over and over and over, the prayers, the stories, the Sunday School, the crafts, the 4-H projects about bees and bugs and slime, where she is loved. And she believes faith is action, “make the world better” because she watches you and I engage and advocate and work for a world that is indeed better.

This is why we started the Abbey, to make this kind of space for all of us. Lila’s experience was something I could only dream and, while I could point to the power of community and the studies of how singing songs and sharing prayers helps our well-being, real actual practice is where the power of our work rests. When we started I could only tell you that it would matter and that faith in community is as powerful as we allow it to be and is as healthy and just as we make it. I get that folks give up and find other strategies to some of what ‘church’ can offer; folks read spiritual teachers or pay for a spiritual retreat or sing and serve with Rotary. But that is still not church and the sins of the church make it tempting to abandon. I believe church matters with every fiber of my being. Yes, church is messy because there are people who have agendas and egos and they get caught up in debates about tables and they send mean e-mails and often struggle to have the one thing they talk about, GRACE. But I tell you with all my heart, there is no substitute for spiritual community and I believe it is worth every effort to embody a healthy theology with song and prayer and meals and hugs and coffee and listening. We are here because you didn’t give up when you could have, we are here because even through a church hurt you, you made space for more relationships, healing and care for others. Because of you, children are growing up with a beautiful understanding of God’s call. Because of you, we sit in this room and share stories that matter and push us to grow. We push beyond what has been with every prayer and imagine what can be with every bit of communion. In this space, we share stories of Moses and Miriam and stories about women are not confined to a women’s bible study and the stories of Jonathan and David or Ruth and Naomi are not confined to our norms. We tell the stories of folks like Joseph in context, where his garment isn’t just a coat of many colors, but should be translated as “Princess Dress” just like it is for Tamar. The power of telling that story in community is that those who love a fabulous princess dress hear that in the same room as folks with the most wealth and power and privilege, in a space where everyone can say, “we see you and we love you and we are here with you.” These stories push us from hearing them to acting, and some of you have come to sing outside when protesters gather because of Drag Queen Story hour and our Miss Yuka’s princess dress.

Faith is something we cannot do alone. Reading a good teacher is wonderful, but they will not be there when you need help or a friend to call. A spiritual retreat is powerful, but the daily ordinary is where faith lives and moves and takes shape. Faith is ordinary and messy work, and the stories of our faith are filled with messy, imperfect people. We are here to make that ordinary space extraordinary in how we center one another, make safe space, and sing out a welcome that makes us all whole. Thank you for staying in the work. Thank you for not giving up on faith in community. Thank you for your deep care that makes the world anew. For the journey we are on together, I give thanks.