Ongoing Response to COVID-19

Weekday Email to Members and Friends – 2021-01-06

Wednesday, January 6th, 2021
A weekday e-mailer from
Matt Matthews
 
Epiphany
 
 * * *
 
Dear Friends,
 
Merriam Webster defines “Epiphany” this way: capitalized : January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ.
 
Some say the days after Epiphany are “ordinary time” until the next calendar highlight, Ash Wednesday, which kicks off the Season of Lent leading to Easter. Others call the days after Epiphany the Season of Epiphany—the short season before Lent. 
 
Epiphany reminds us to keep looking at Jesus who reveals to us God and God’s way. Wise men still pay attention to the night follow holy signs. And crowds still leave the city center to gather in the wilderness at the bidding of John the baptizer, watching Jesus himself come up from those waters with a heavenly crack in the skies. The star leads to Christ. John hollering at the water’s edge proclaims Jesus Messiah. And in Christ we see God. Epiphany.
 
The church calendar, to a large degree, hems in my life and work. The year is ramping up: a new year, a new life, a renewed walk. Epiphany.
 
Not incidentally for my immediate family, it is the very day my father died in 2002. Rachel and I were putting on our coats in Mom’s kitchen when the floor nurse at the VA Hospital called. Mom sunk to the floor saying, “O God, O God.” It was prayer, not blasphemous curse. Rachel and I, hearts pounding out of our chests, knew Dad was gone. Expectedly, suddenly, finally. Gone. His death, as did his life, bore witness to me of God’s steady love and providential care. I had my Dad (an a host of others) to show me the way of faith. The wise men had a star. So many epiphanies.
 
Thanks be to God for those people and events that reveal to us God’s godly things and abiding hope. The one born in a manger enlightens, heals, guides, reigns.
 
Join us TONIGHT at 7 pm for our Wednesday evening Zoom. We’ll pray our way into the Season of Epiphany.
Email zoom@firstpres.church for the link. 
 
* * *
 
Today is Epiphany. Happy Epiphany. Here’s an Epiphany story from my friend Jeff Kellam. 
 
* * *
 
“Star Child”
by Jeff Kellam
 
They called seven-year-old Jesse the star child. That is, the people who lived in the homes near his in Bethlehem—they smiled as they saw him night after night look into the dark sky to watch the stars.
 
Jesse would spend the last few minutes before his bedtime gazing into the starry heavens, wondering why some stars seemed to shimmer, and why others didn’t. There were some nights, of course, that there were clouds that blanketed the heavens, and other nights that the moon was so full that the stars hid behind its light. And there were evenings when the smoke of cooking fires made it hard to see the gently sparkling dome overhead.
 
But if there were stars to see, Jesse would find them, and though he had long given up counting them, he had never stopped marveling at their splendor. His mother had warned him about getting a crook in his neck from always looking up before bedtime. Jesse’s father worried that his youngest son was more interested in stars than in other children, their games, their friendship. Jesse’s two older brothers and his sister had grown bored with making fun of him, and now pretty much ignored his nightly routine. They would come in from the fields where they helped their father shepherd the sheep herd of a well-to-do neighbor, and they were too tired to bother with their starry-eyed little brother.
 
One night as Jesse stood in the front doorway his mother wondered out loud if maybe Jesse’s neck might lock up one night and for the rest of his life he would have to walk around looking toward the sky. This was Jesse’s chance to ask again to sleep up on the roof. That way he could lie flat on his back and watch the stars until he fell asleep. And, he told his mother, his neck would straighten out nicely.
 
Most of the homes in Bethlehem had steps that led to their roofs. And most had a wall around the roof for safety, so that people who went up there to catch cool breezes during summer’s worst heat wouldn’t fall off. But Jesse’s house had such a low wall that his parents didn’t allow him up there alone. He might now be old enough to sleep up there by himself, his mother explained, but these nights are getting so cold…maybe in the springtime would be better.
 
But Jesse didn’t want to wait any longer. “I’m seven, I have a blanket, and I will be careful. The sky will be different in the spring. I want to see tonight’s stars,” he pleaded. Over the past several weeks, Jesse had noticed that there were stars clustering together, it seemed, joining their delicate sparkles into a bright beam that Jesse couldn’t stop staring at. An old man who lived two houses away had told Jesse one night that this was a sign of something about to happen, something very important.
 
When Jesse’s mother saw how badly he wanted to spend the night on the roof, she finally agreed, and Jesse rejoiced, dancing up the steps to the roof, to scout it out before dark. Jesse’s joy was short-lived however.
 
His oldest brother came home from the shepherd’s field early, and announced that he was sick. He gave his coat and shepherd’s crook to Jesse and told him he’d have to take his place that night. “But I get to sleep on the roof tonight, by myself, for the first time,  and the stars are moving together!” His brother didn’t know what that meant,  but said Jesse had no choice. They needed him to watch the sheep that night. Sheep are more important than stars, Jesse’s brother said. 
 
But then he added that there was no better place to see stars than in the shepherd’s field. “Once the sheep are put in the gate, you can lie down in the grass and stay up all night as far as I care,” his sick brother said before going to his mat to rest. 
 
Jesse’s eyes grew wide at the thought of that canopy of stars overhead. That would be better than being up on the roof. At twilight, Jesse grabbed his brother’s staff, a blanket, and a hunk of bread and he went out to join his father in the field.
 
The last of the sheep were being herded into the gate when Jesse arrived. There was always some commotion, baa-ing and bleating, wayward sheep to gather in, Jesse’s father giving instructions for the night, and then, finally, things began to settle down. It grew quieter, and Jesse, being the youngest, was allowed to wrap himself in his blanket and lie down to sleep.
 
But, of course, he didn’t sleep. He lay there looking into the night sky bright with dazzling stars. He knew where to look for the brightest ones, and they were of course in their places. Then he saw the brightest of the bright, the ones the old man had said were more than stars, but a shining sign of something special about to take place. Jesse lay there and wondered . . . 
 
He had only wondered for a minute or two when his brother Jacob interrupted. “Jesse, wake up!” 
 
“I’m not asleep,” Jesse said as he sat up. 
 
“Father has heard something. We need to stay alert!” 
 
“What did he hear? A wolf?” Jesse asked excitedly.
 
“We’re not sure,” his brother whispered.
 
They all heard it. It was no wild beast. It was more like the wind, but . . . musical. It was a sound like laughter, but not like any sound any of them had heard before. As it grew louder, it was like a song, like the temple’s music, but happier; like a wedding dance, but more beautiful, almost as if angels were singing in the sky. Jesse looked again into the heavens, found his brightest stars, and listened to the wind’s song. This was the perfect place to be, Jesse thought. “I never want to leave,” he said to himself.
 
But his father had other ideas. “Jesse, come on; we’re going into town.”
 
“Into town? Why? What about the stars? I mean, the sheep?”
 
“We’ve heard that a homeless couple has come to town, their baby being born in a shed behind a house not far from ours. I’m going with some others to see if they need help. Your brother will stay here in the fold, but I want you to come with me.”
 
“But why can’t I stay here,” Jesse whined. “I don’t want to see a baby; I want to sleep under the stars.”
 
“Your brother has enough to do watching the sheep. He can’t take care of you, too. So I will. 
Come on now.”
 
His father’s tone was harsh and Jesse knew he had no choice.
 
He sulked as he walked, but since it was dark it did no good. His father and the other shepherds walked hurriedly into Bethlehem, down one village road and then another, speaking excitedly, and moving a little bit too fast for a boy up past his bedtime.
 
They edged their way through a small group of on-lookers, and there in a smelly shed where animals are sheltered at night, there was a baby in a feeding trough. His father spoke to the man whose wife had given birth, but Jesse went right to the infant, bright stars and laughing breezes and angelic songs momentarily forgotten. Jesse had seen babies before, but not this soon after birth. The little one was wrapped up tightly, and all that Jesse could see was the baby’s face. Tiny, wrinkled, red . . . little eyes closed in gentle sleep.
 
As Jesse watched, the baby opened his eyes.
 
“Look,” the child’s mother whispered, “he’s awake.”
 
Jesse looked into the child’s eyes and was startled by what he saw. There, in the clearest, brightest eyes he’d ever seen, was a star! Such a light in this baby’s eyes! Brighter than the brightest star in the sky. This was better than being on the roof. This was even better than lying in the field watching the twinkling heavens. Jesse couldn’t take his eyes off the star he saw in this child’s eyes.
 
Now, some folks would have said that it must have been the light of a near-by torch reflected in the baby’s eyes. Or the light that came from the cooking fire. But once Jesse saw a star, he remembered it, and he would never forget the shining eyes of that baby.
 
Because he discovered when he got home that there was a light in his mother’s eyes, too. He’d never noticed that before. When he looked into his father’s eyes, sure enough, there was a star. Even his brothers and his sister had a light in their eyes that Jesse had never noticed until the night he saw the light in the eyes of the new born child in Bethlehem.
 
And there was something else Jesse noticed. The stars in peoples’ eyes grew brighter when they laughed. From that night forever, light and joy danced in Jesse’s eyes and he always looked for that bright gleam in the eyes of people he met. If it wasn’t there, or bright enough, Jesse knew how to bring joy—and stars—to their eyes. (Jeff Kellam)
 
* * *
 
Happy Epiphany. As you look for God’s signs to guide your way, remember others look to you and follow your example.
 
Much love to you all.
 
PEACE,
 
Matt Matthews
 
,
Matt Matthews
First Presbyterian Church Champaign
A (cool) congregation of the PC(USA)
Church: 217.356.7238; Cell: 864.386.9138
matt@firstpres.church

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Weekday Email to Members and Friends – 2021-01-05

 
   
                                                       

 The Heart of Mission
January 5, 2021
 
The word “mission” comes from the Latin word “missionem” meaning “the act of sending” or “mittere,” meaning “to send.” As Christians, we are being sent into the world to serve our Lord. The Matthew 25 commitment the session took last year reminds us this work means being engaged in
 ·      Building congregational vitality by challenging people and congregations to deepen their faith and get actively and joyfully engaged with their community and the world.
·      Dismantling structural racism by advocating and acting to break down the systems, practices and thinking that underlie discrimination, bias, prejudice and oppression of people of color.
·      Eradicating systemic poverty by working to change laws, policies, plans and structures in our society that perpetuate economic exploitation of people who are poor.
 
Want to know more? Learn more here:
 https://www.presbyterianmission.org/ministries/matthew-25/become-a-matthew-25-church/
 
Serving the poor is complicated, though. We can hurt people we love by creating unhealthy dependencies and wounding embarrassments without even knowing it. I am rereading Toxic Charity by Robert Lupton who in his first chapter gives us a blueprint for what he calls “compassionate service.” This blueprint can help us avoid shaming our neighbor or exploiting the poor with unhealthy dependencies or charitable power trips as we try to serve. The oath for compassionate service is a helpful map as we enter 2021. As we move from the crisis of pandemic to the work of rebuilding, there will be a lot of demand this year for love, for giving, for teaching, for listening, for serving, for compassion, maybe even more than last year. Can we be intentional about our helping? Can we build relationships instead of doing our duty? Can we hold justice, mercy and loving kindness in the right balance?  What do you think about taking on this oath as a resolution? If it makes you uncomfortable, why? If it excites you, why? Is this year an opportunity for you to learn more about mission, about what is helpful and what is not? Working through these questions with others is part of the work on this journey. Who will you work with? Let’s work together.
 
The Oath for Compassionate Service
•   Never do for the poor what they have (or could have) the capacity to do for themselves.
•   Limit one-way giving to emergency situations.
•   Strive to empower the poor through employment, lending, and investing, using grants sparingly to reinforce achievements.
•   Subordinate self-interests to the needs of those being served.
•   Listen closely to those you seek to help, especially to what is not being said—unspoken feelings may contain essential clues to effective service.
•   Above all, do no harm. (Lupton, Robert D.. Toxic Charity (pp. 8-10). HarperOne. Kindle Edition.)
 
Happy New Year,
 
Rev. Dr. Rachel Matthews, Mission Coordinator
 
Let us keep all our mission partners in our prayers, those who are waiting to go back to their place of ministry and those who are able to work where they are. Listen for God’s call to you in their ministry.
 
Our PC(USA) Mission CoWorkers:
 
Mark Adams and Miriam Maidonado Escobar (Mexico)
Farsijanna Adeney-Risakotta (Indonesia)
Jeff and Christi Boyd (Central Africa)
Jo Ella Holman (Caribbean and Cuba) – And, for the mission coworker you are preparing to take her place.
Bob and Kristi Rice (South Sudan)
 
Our regional and global mission partners:
 
Kemmerer Village (and Camp Carew)
Lifeline Pilots
Marion Medical Mission
Mission Aviation Fellowship
Opportunity International
Friends of Presbyterian Education Board in Pakistan Presbyterian Cuba Partnership
Special Offerings of the PC(USA)
Theological Education Fund
Young Adult Volunteers
 
Here in Champaign – Urbana:
 
CU at Home
CANAAN S.A.F.E. HOUSE
CANTEEN RUN
COURAGE CONNECTION
DREAAM
eMPTY TOMB, INC
FAITH IN ACTION
JESUS IS THE WAY PRISON MINISTRY
THE REFUGEE CENTER
RESTORATION URBAN MINISTRY
SALT & LIGHT
 
Here at First Presbyterian Church
 
FPCC Amateur Preachers
FPCC Environmental Committee working with Faith in Place
FPCC Presbyterian Women
FPCC ESL
FPCC Children, Youth and Families
FPCC Mission Possible/Go and Serve
 
 
 
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  302 W. Church Street
  Champaign, IL 61820
  217-356-7238
  info@firstpres.church
 
 

 
   
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Weekday Email to Members and Friends – 2021-01-04

Monday, January 4, 2020
A weekday e-mailer from
Matt Matthews
 
The Eleventh Day of Christmas . . . 
 
* * *
 
Dear Friends,
 
On Thursday, this emailer will return to its regular format, but today and Wednesday (Epiphany Day) I’d like to go a little deeper and savor the Christmas Season. We’re still in it. At the check-out line in the grocery on January 2nd, all the merchandise on the shelves leading up to the cashiers was for Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t believe it. I refuse to rush Christmas.
 
My friend Allen Huff preached this great sermon on Christmas Eve. I share it with you to ponder. 
 
Merry Christmas.
 
Still.
 
Matt
 
* * *  
 
“Participants in the Kingdom”
Isaiah 42:1-9,  Romans 8:18-25,  Luke 2:1-20
Allen Huff/Jonesborough Presbyterian Church
Christmas Eve 2020
 
 
         Isaiah prophesied to Hebrew exiles in Babylon. He shared a message of deliverance with Jews who had been displaced from Jerusalem for enough generations to be well past any kind of Stockholm syndrome. For many, Babylon had become home. However, if the very presence of prophets among the Hebrews says anything about their state of mind, they knew that they were not, nor would they ever be, Babylonians. They had been called into something far bigger than comfortable captivity in a wealthy, powerful, and even somewhat accommodating empire.
         Through Isaiah, God says, Don’t acclimate to this! I am raising a servant who will be saturated with my spirit. He will work for justice. He will reestablish you, Israel, as God’s chosen sign of the covenant with the Creation. He will lead you out of captivity so that you help to bring light to the nations, to open blind eyes, and set captives free.
         And God is working on this new thing right now, says Isaiah. Today.
         And the people gaze toward Jerusalem, wondering, Who is this servant?
         About 800 years later, Paul writes to Jewish Christians in Rome saying that while the present age is fraught with oppression and suffering, those things will not prevail. Indeed, such experiences are themselves the birth pangs of something new. The people, then, can live in hope because the same God who promised deliverance to Hebrews in Babylon is still at work creating and recreating, bringing the kind of light, justice, and freedom that the nations cannot deliver because they serve only themselves.
         Isaiah and Paul penned messages of great promise and hope. They’re Christmas messages because through them God does more than utter words. God creates incarnate expressions of healing grace in and for a suffering Creation.
While this is wonderful news, there’s a fly in all this healing ointment. Neither Isaiah, nor the servant, nor Paul act alone. So, the people to whom they speak cannot sit back and merely watch what happens because God doesn’t call spectators. Seeing isn’t believing in God’s realm. God calls and equips participants who join in the faith-generating work of doing justice, showing compassion, and sharing joy.
         In Luke, the angels’ announcement to shepherds was not for a superhero who had come to save the day singlehandedly. No, they announced the arrival of a messiah, a leader, one who would walk with the people as together they overcame the challenges and obstacles of disorienting oppression and injustice. And that messiah had arrived as a child, an infant, one who would need to be held and nursed. His diapers would need to be changed. Long before he would be immersed in John’s baptism, he would need to be immersed in the scriptures and rituals of his people. And as savior, his salvation would be about far more than individual transgressions.
In his hometown synagogue in Nazareth, an adult Jesus, fresh from his baptism and temptation, reads from the scroll of Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” says Jesus, “because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” And when Jesus finishes reading that prophecy, he sits down and lets Isaiah’s words marinate in silence. Then he utters his own challenging and transforming words: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4:16-21)
The child born this night is savior to a Creation in exile. And the salvation he brings liberates us from captivity to materialism, fear, and violence. Those foundational idolatries lead to all other transgressions. The “sins” from which we often claim deliverance through Jesus are merely symptoms of the deeper more destructive realities that enslave us. And our own culture is as materialistic, fear-driven, and violent as anything the ancients experienced. That’s precisely why faith matters, and why Christmas matters.
Jesus comes to do more than forgive our sins. As the Anointed One, he comes to lead us in the ways of faith, righteousness, justice, and peace. To me, Jesus seems far less interested in believers than he is in followers. His salvation comes not through dogma regurgitated but through love shared. And like Jesus, we inhabit God’s realm through our willing and determined participation in the kingdom of God. Here and now. Today.
We’ve all just experienced an extremely difficult year. We’ve endured a global pandemic, and even as vaccines are rolling out, some of the most difficult days still lie ahead. Like Rome, Covid is an occupying force. Like Babylon, it keeps us exiled from people and communities we love. But modern science, one of God’s shining stars, heralds good news, and it’s coming to us far more quickly than it would have just a decade ago. God is and has been at work through the minds of scientists and the hands of caregivers, as well as through the hearts of people who take precautions on behalf of their neighbors.
We’ve also experienced social and political upheaval this year. Across our country, we have recognized that the disease of racism still festers in our midst. Becoming aware of an institutional evil like racism is kind of like getting diagnosed with a life-threatening virus. And long before acceptance, parts of the body struggle with denial. And yet, throughout the generations, voices of grief have wailed, as the prophet Jeremiah says, like “Rachel…weeping for her children; [and] she refuses to be comforted…because they are no more.” (Jeremiah 31:15) Those were prophetic tears, tears which have been flowing for 400 years as prayers for deliverance, prayers for the very sort of kingdom-of-God justice that Isaiah promised.
All around us and within us, there are sufferings which may hold nothing when compared to “the glory about to be revealed,” but they’re sufferings nonetheless. Jesus, the Christ, comes to redeem that suffering by leading us in the ways of peace, justice, and love.
Friends, it’s Christmas, and the gift given to us in the child born in Bethlehem is the gift of freedom from exile, freedom from fear, freedom from greed and hopelessness. In Christ, God gives us one whom we may follow into lives and communities that are not only redeemed by grace, but that participate in God’s work of redemption in the Creation. Thus is this “good news of great joy for all people.”
Like Mary, let us treasure these words and ponder them in our hearts so that we nurture the new and renewing Christ Presence within us.
I give thanks to God for all of you. And I give thanks for the myriad ways in which you participate in God’s transforming work wherever you are, whoever you are.
Merry Christmas to you all, and Merry Christmas to others through you.
 
,
Matt Matthews
First Presbyterian Church Champaign
A (cool) congregation of the PC(USA)
Church: 217.356.7238; Cell: 864.386.9138
matt@firstpres.church

Read more thoughtful essays and sermons from Allen at: 
https://jabbokinthefoothills.blog/


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Weekday Email to Members and Friends – 2021-01-01

Friday, January 1st, 2021
A weekday e-mailer from
Matt Matthews
 
The Seventh Day of Christmas 
(New Year’s Day . .  ). 
 
* * *
 
A Prayer for A New Year
 
Dear Reader, 
 
If you are among the number who believe the New Year requires at least one bowl of black eyed peas and one formal prayer, this message is for you. Listen to that calling to pray, even if you aren’t a “pray-er.” Pray today. Begin this year with a prayer. With your prayer. 
 
Here is a possible guide. It may work and help, or not. It may be too loosey-goosey, or feel too restrictive. The point is, offer to God a prayer on this first day of the year. Ready?
 
Use a prayer book, a psalm, a favorite hymn. Bruce Springsteen or Paul Simon can suggest lyrics to get you started. Stevie Wonder’s Songs In the Key of Life is a whole album of prayers. Let Leslie Odom be your high cantor, Aretha and Ella lead your chorus. Launch. Lift. Consider flight. However you begin, allow space for the words and prompts of others to become your very own words. 
 
If you don’t have words, pause and don’t speak. Allow yourself to feel the freedom of being mute, quiet, decidedly not on the spot.
 
Don’t think.
 
Don’t worry. 
 
Listen. 
 
Be. 
 
If you don’t have words for your prayer, consider that a gift. Relish it. Articulation is not limited to or bound by words. Sit up straight. Breathe deeply. Look up to the sky. A sun is behind those clouds. 
 
Go outside and pause by the mailbox. Let the cold sting your face. Don’t hurry. Allow the chill to slip between your shoulder blades down your spine. Horripilate. (Look it up.) Feel the frozen grass underfoot. Listen to the woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking. Do you hear distant traffic? Wind in tree tops? Running water? Your belly growl. 
 
Try on words like grace, thanks, wonder, awe. Say thanks more than once. You may wish to say those words out loud, but silence is fine.
 
Don’t let your neighbor or housemate know what you are doing. This is private. The moment you find yourself alone may be the moment you realize you are not alone. The Spirit may tip her hand, or not. Be still and be in a place where someone won’t ask you Are we out of eggs? or, Where did you put the tape? 
 
Save your prayer lists for later, your list of woes, your list of wants, your list of friends, their cancers, their wayward children, those struggling with Covid. These lists are good, but allow yourself to pray through them, beyond them. Let your prayer begin deeply within you, but let it transcend you, me, mine. Lift up your concerns and celebrations. Let them slip between your fingers. Feel them leave your fingertips as you let them go. 
 
You may wish to allow a scene from the Bible to enter into your brain. Allow yourself to walk into that scene. Still waters, green grass. A dusty road outside of Jericho. Magi with gifts. Shepherds with news. A garden. A mountaintop. A river’s water piled up on either side of a dry path. A manger. On an eagle’s wings. Moses conferring a blessing. Peter (or Amos) preaching a sermon. Jesus wiping a fevered brow. Daniel in a lion’s den. Ruth and a threshing floor. Ezekial in a valley of dry bones. Disciples on a boat. Whatever.
 
Is there a message for you there? 
 
A question? 
 
Don’t rush, and don’t take all day long because people need you. But, for now, pause. Cease. Wonder. 
 
If you doze, fine. But if you sleep, allow yourself to dream. Take stock of those dreams, those fleeting images, being chased, falling, leaning into the firelight—pay attention, then let them go. Wake more deeply into centered prayer. 
 
Thank.
 
Plead. 
 
Listen.
 
Be.
 
Give up.
 
Give out.
 
Let go.
 
Receive, absorb, soak it in, welcome.
 
Be open.
 
Be still.
 
Be ready,
 
and go out to
 
serve. 
 
A M E N
 
 
,
Matt Matthews
First Presbyterian Church Champaign
A (cool) congregation of the PC(USA)
Church: 217.356.7238; Cell: 864.386.9138
matt@firstpres.church


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Weekday Email to Members and Friends – 2020-12-31

Thursday, December 31st, 2020
A weekday e-mailer from
Matt Matthews
 
Some would say this is New Year’s Eve.
They would be correct. But it is also—
 
The Sixth Day of Christmas . . . 
 
* * *

                  Pause and take stock of what you’ve lost in 2020.
 
                  But don’t allow yourself to get stuck there. 
 
                  The losses may remind you, as they often do me, how deeply I have been blessed. This is an all-too-true story about how one of my blessings came to me through loss. Bittersweet, you may call itI say sweet. May it guide you in your own reflections as this year passes to the next—on this, the sixth day of the Festival of Christmas.
 
                  We are blessed to be a blessing.
 
M.
 
 
* * *
 
                  Alice Pincus Zischkau died at 7:40 on the morning before Thanksgiving Day. She was born sometime the year before me and was a grade ahead of me in school. I was a Hampton High Crabber. She was a Knight at Peninsula Catholic.
 
                  I met Alice through her brother, Steve, and soon she and I were playing tennis at the courts at Armstrong Elementary. I walked her home down Chesapeake Avenue—the Boulevard as my father called it—and, though we never once dated, those evening strolls could not have been more romantic, moonlight slow-dancing on the dark waves of the Hampton Roads. 
 
                  We played Scrabble. We talked. We laughed a lot. 
 
                  Girls were a mystery to me. They confused me by just walking into the room. Alice brought this complexity to our brief adolescence, but, mainly, she was the girl next door who lived six long blocks away at the bottom of Robinson Park. She was my safe friend. We talked. She listened. I tried. We laughed. A lot.
 
                  When she went to the University of Dallas, we wrote sporadically. She often signed her letters, “Love and Prayers.” She meant that, I knew. What comfort those words brought me, to know that she loved me and occasionally dropped my name in her frequent conversations with the Almighty.
 
                  My wife and I attended her wedding. We were grad students at a protestant seminary studying to 
become the pastors we are now. I hadn’t worshipped in a Roman Catholic Church before, but I never missed a week with my Presbyterian brood. It astonished me to read in their worship bulletin that non-Catholics were not allowed to the altar for the sacrament because we protestants and others were part of the broken church. We were encouraged to refrain from partaking and, instead, pray for the unity of the worldwide body of Christ. I was miffed and confused, too stung to pray, incredulous to be separated from my friend on such a special day by the sacrament we both held as central to our faith and life. Church unity has been important for me ever since, made poignant by this moment at Alice’s wedding. 
 
                  Rachel and I were included in their joyous celebration in every other way, however, and we were so glad to be invited. The wedding crowd was large, as I recall, and an exuberant violinist moved through the crowd playing festive tunes during the sit-down dinner. I remember looking up to see if the moon that evening was blue. Alice had long-held that she only drank once in a blue moon, and every table in that large hall had lots of wine.
 
                  The wedding was in D.C. not Cana, but the miracles that day were no less astonishing. Joy gilded everything, moved through everybody, waltzed across glad faces. A dapper tux and lace wedding gown are not the daily uniform for a thirty-year marriage and for raising a family, but for Alice and Jon it seemed the perfect way to begin.
 
                  If our families shared Christmas cards during those years, I do not remember. Life got busy for us both. We reconnected several years ago when Steve told me about her breast cancer. I started reading and commenting on her Caring Bridge site. We exchanged some handwritten letters in these recent years. We had lived whole lifetimes since those teenaged games of Scrabble. It was good to be back in touch with my old friend. She was still the girl next door, if only half a country away.
 
                  Steve got in touch when the end was near, and texted a few hours later that the inevitable had come. Somehow, it seemed appropriate that she would die on the day before Thanksgiving, putting us all on red-alert that we should give thanks for both the tender mercies we’ve treasured and for those we may have forgotten to count. Alice is one of God’s many blessings that have made my life rich, and whole, and good. 
 
                  On Thanksgiving Eve, my boys and I went for a late-night walk on the wide beach at low tide. Rachel and our grown sons had rented a house on Folly Island for the holiday. Waves nudged in piles of ocean foam, iridescent in the beam of my flashlight. We were warm in sweatshirts and shorts—a far cry from temperatures back in my new hometown in Illinois. The boys laughed, joked, and pushed each other around as we wove a path down the beach around curving lines of waves. The waxing moon pushed three quarters full and wasn’t at all blue, but bright, as were constellations of green stars floating over the ocean. The stuff of memory is like waves or light. We are never apart from those we love, from all creation, no matter the estrangement of space and time and loss. 
 
                  Love and prayers. That’s how Alice might put it. It was her way not only of saying goodbye for now, but of leaning into the future, a credo, her way of affirming that we weave our way together, sometimes as near to each other as the other side of a tennis court and sometimes as seemingly far away as the other side of Jordan, but never alone. She wrote those words in her neat, cursive handwriting. Love and prayers. 
 
                  So many prayers. 
 
                  So much love.
  
,
Matt Matthews
First Presbyterian Church Champaign
A (cool) congregation of the PC(USA)
Church: 217.356.7238; Cell: 864.386.9138
matt@firstpres.church


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