Every morning I have a ritual. I make tea. I smell the fresh leaves. I feel the hot mug. I taste the milk and sugar. I hear the kettle boil. I see the steam rise from the creamy tan cup. Almost every day, for twenty years, and my mother did it for me before then. It is centering. It settles me. I sit and drink it slowly and wake up.
If I get anxious during the day, I can repeat this ritual. Repeat the fifteen minutes of sitting, watching birds, drinking my tea. Hearing the wind chimes. Breathing.
Our minds are complicated things. Back here we have a reptilian brain. This animalistic brain only thinks of fight or flight. It keeps us alive. Gives us cortisol and adrenaline and everything we need to fight a lion or run from a lion. This part of our brain gets active when we feel threatened. It takes over – ready to help us survive!
In modern society, there’s few lions to fight or run from. Most of our stressors you can’t get your hands on, nor can you run from. Our main stressor right now is COVID-19. We can wash our hands, but we can punch COVID-19 in the face and make it go away. We can run from it, and hide in our homes, but it is a very contagious virus that is already lose in our societies. We cannot see it. We don’t know who is carrying, or if we are carrying, this scary thing.
Our reptilian brains still tell us to fight it or flee from it. And as we do neither and the stress continues, our bodies get more and more of the stress chemicals. Our heart rates speed up. We get grumpy and short and irritated. Up goes our blood pressure. We turn to self medication – food, chocolate, cigarettes, alcohol – something to try to deal with that anxiety.
This is nothing new. We humans have been doing this maybe since the time we first bit the forbidden fruit in God’s garden. Being human means being more than our fight or flight reptilian brains. It means using the human part of our brain. The front part. The part that thinks about society, that does art, that appreciates music, that wants more than survival. It was to love and to be loved and thrive.
Rituals help us move from our scared minds to our peaceful minds. From our animalistic minds to our humanistic minds.
Rituals, like tea. Like prayer. Like church.
When we gather remember the sound of Hans ringing the bell? Remember the smell of the candles? Remember the sound of Terrie’s organ playing? Do you remember the feel of the bulletins Lori prepared and the soft pews? Do you remember seeing the sunshine coming through the stained glass windows? Church is a ritual. We center. We take a breath from the world of survival. We take a moment to engage the human side of our brains and be community.
Separated as we are, scared as we are, anxious as we are, we can still call on the power of rituals. Rituals to ground us. Rituals to engage our senses and move us from the gathering pent up energy to a place to let it go for a moment. Our animal brains don’t listen to us saying, “There’s nothing I can do! Calm down!” But we can train our animal brains to calm down.
Some people light candles. A candle, a votive, for every person they’re praying for. It is slow. It is meditative. It is prayer. A prayer and a candle. A way to move from anxious thoughts of our loved ones to action for our loved ones.
Some people color. With crayons and any paper. With pencils and complicated coloring books. I’ve put a link in the description of this video sermon with some colorings for Lent, if you’d like to try.Coloring isn’t just for kids. It is a way to engage our hands to let our minds wander. To move from fear, to prayer, to comfort. ((Find many more resources here for all ages!))
This week, our governor Mike DeWine began one of his conferences with the 23rd Psalm. The 23rd Psalm is a ritual. Repeat it with me, if you remember it. Or pause and look it up. I’m going to use the King James Version, which is not the translation our Bible has, but it is the translation used as a ritual. The one we remember and relate to.
23 Pslam: The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
DeWine used the ritual of this familiar, beloved Psalm to center us. To gather us. To let us use our community and loving brains before we went back into bad news, and fear.
In this psalm, we speak of walking in a valley. The mountain looming ahead of us is overwhelming. It surrounds us, even. All around us is danger! It casts a shadow on our lives. It casts a death shadow. People are dying from COVID-19 in Ohio now. People we know may yet die from it. There is real evil about us. Real enemies.
Things aren’t okay.
But for a moment, we remember that we’re walking with God through this hellish time. God is seeking out good places to lead us. We don’t need to seek them and worry about them. We just need to stick by God’s side. Even if we die in this valley, we shall be with God. God isn’t letting us go.
In the book we are reading together for Lent, Lillian Daniel speaks of how a community of love is stronger than death. How we are all called to be Christ like. Called to the universal priesthood. Called to be ministers and servants to one another. All of us are lay ministers, in Lillian Daniel’s words. And this community of love survives. Thrives.
Our community of love is the love of Christ. Christ has already died and is resurrected. Christ is our living, ever refreshing, water. Christ is the deep well we cannot run dry. Christ is the love among us that is our Good Shepherd and we shall not be in want of more. All good gifts are ours.
The times we living through will be spoken of for generations. And we are uniquely aware right now of how we touch lives we never know. We are told to socially isolate, but not to be isolated in society. Stay home. Stay away from other humans. Be safe, be healthy. But be society and not alone.
Reach out. Please, telephone me. Write me. Text me.
Reach out. Tell your stories, your testimony of what you learned in the hard times of WWII with we younger generations. Tell your stories – in the anger and fear of Vietnam, where did you find comfort? Share your testimony… how is God active in your life now? How is God using you – uniquely you with your passions and your skills – to minister to others in this dark valley?
Maybe… make a ritual of it. Write a little each day. Record a little. Telephone someone. Draw or paint this story. Sew it. Bake it.
Yes, we’re in a dark time. But we are with one another, and God is standing protectively with us. Yes, we see trouble all around. But God is on the look out for green pastures and still waters. Yes, there’s no end in sight. No relief. But we can make relief and sacred, calming, space along the way on this journey.
You’ve heard it said to be the church. The physical building of the church may be closed, but we are the Church. The Church is the Body of Christ no matter where it is physically scattered.
May God bless the space between us until we meet again.
Amen.
Pastor Whitney Bruno Sermons 