Blessed by the most vulnerable.

Posted on April 14, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

As I go along in ministry, I seem to get clearer and clearer about my sense of call.  Rapidly I find myself getting over the need to apologize for what often comes across as a broad and unwieldy sense of ministry.  A ministry that is best summed up as this: Care for the most vulnerable. Seek them out and love them.

(precious Teddy, awaiting adoption)

The list goes on and on. Some days it is the poor who cry out for attention, on others it is someone who has suffered a staggering personal loss. It can be the addicted and dying or the recovering alcoholic looking for a next step and renewed sense of purpose. Some days it is the alien or the one who is overwhelmed by too much stuff and the sense of emptiness that can come along with great wealth. Other days it is the elderly and forgotten or those who have been shunned because of their sexual orientation.  The truth – if we take an honest look within – is that we all at some time or another experience vulnerability or at the very least the fear of becoming one of those at risk.

Today was joyful.  I had the privilege of praying for and blessing a parade of precious three- and four-legged creatures, who have been rescued by TARAA (The Animal Rescue & Adoption Agency).  Some of these precious ones – like Teddy – are awaiting adoption.  For others this “Dog Day Afternoon” event was an annual reunion of happily adopted and well-adjusted furry friends and their new families.

May we pay attention to all those in our midst who tend to be forgotten or ignored.  May we love even those who seem to have nothing to contribute.  When we bless them and love them, it pleases the One who has created everything.  When we care for them we are caring for our God and for ourselves.

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“Woman, why are you weeping?’

Posted on April 8, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’

Easter is an immensely joyful time for those who believe and trust in the good news.  We celebrate what has been accomplished for us, in spite of us.  But, at best, this account of resurrection – of new life brought out of the sure grip of death — is perplexing for those who have never had faith and deeply painful for those who have had faith and then lost it. Easter is for all people but perhaps most especially it is for those with nothing to hope for. For those who are dying on the inside.

(photo taken at Camp Weed, near Live Oak, FL)

Last week I met a woman who has been chronically homeless for at least 12 years.  Her health is poor and she suffers from schizophrenia and God-only-knows what else.  I was with a team of compassionate folks who know her, who on a regular basis seek her out on the street where she lives in an attempt to connect her with resources – food, shelter and health care.  She is delusional but she is very sharp.  She took one look at me, sized me up, and knew I wasn’t part of the regular HOPE Team that looks out for her.

“You’re not a doctor,” she said.  “You’re not wearing a badge.”

“No ma’am,” I said very slowly, buying time.  I didn’t want to tell her I’m a priest.

Then she asked me point blank: “So, what are you?”

I fudged a little, told her I am a pastor.

“Ohhhh,” she said, “so you’re here to make me feel bad.  You’re here to make me feel guilty.”

“No, ma’am. Not at all,” I hoped to reassure her. “I just want to meet you.”

Church has done a number on her, a number on so many deeply wounded souls. That afternoon, I was glad to not be wearing a collar.

I remember watching my friend Aaron, a couple months ago, speak straight to the heart of a woman, Kim, who was hunkered on a curb one night in downtown Atlanta.  She wondered why we were there, handing out water, sweatshirts, peanut butter crackers.  Taking an interest.

Aaron knelt down, looked her in the eye.  “God loves you.  You maybe haven’t heard that in a while.  That’s why I’m here.”

She blinked back at him through tears.  “But I’m drinking,” she explained.

“God might prefer that you not drink,” he tells her.  “But that doesn’t diminish his love for you one bit.  You are precious to God no matter what.”

Later that evening, when we passed along the way, not far from where Kim sat hunkered with some companions, she called out to us.  “I love you guys.”

I have a hunch that Kim saw Jesus in Aaron’s eyes that evening; but I know for sure that I saw Jesus in hers.

He lives.

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Stripped and broken, beautiful still.

Posted on March 30, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(Photo taken at Trinity Episcopal Church in St. Augustine, FL)

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”  He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die. (John 12:32-33)

When we think of the beauty of God, it is not uncommon to point to a sunset, to snow-capped mountains, to the ocean, or to a solitary, early bloom announcing the arrival of Spring.  The idea of “the beauty of God” can sound like just that:  a philosophical ideal that is always just out of our grasp.

These past few weeks, in our Lenten Recovery services, we’ve listened to stories of spiritual awakening, each one as unique as the person who shared it.  Stories borne out of hopelessness, out of utter desperation, out of relentless addiction.  Stories of broken human beings who became willing, one last time to consider that there is a God – a God who loves them no matter who they are or where they have been or where they might find themselves on this journey of faith.  The honest vulnerability of the men and women as they share — the matter-of-fact account of their personal stories — hits home on a gut level.  No window dressing.  No romanticizing.  Just the facts.  The facts that unexpectedly led them to the most important fact: ‘that God has entered (their) hearts and their lives in a way that is indeed miraculous.’[1]

One of my prayers for the past few Lenten seasons has been to ask God to help me contemplate and understand the meaning of the Cross.  One time, when I was in my twenties, I attended a retreat of Episcopal Church Women.  During one of our services, I lined up with the other ladies to receive healing prayer.  When the priest asked me what he should pray for, I surprised myself.  Instead of asking for whatever it was I had in mind, I blurted out: “I want to be healed of the core of shame inside me.”  As he prayed for me, in an instant I was on the hill at Calvary.  The sky was dark and ominous and the wind blew viciously as I witnessed Christ dying on the cross.  The priest whispered in my ear: “Cast your shame on Him.”  There was no defensiveness, no hesitation in me at that moment – nothing between me and the One who poured out his life for us.

As Holy Week approaches, I find myself transfixed by the statement ‘I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.’  How is it that such a gruesome image – that of Jesus being brutally and senselessly murdered – how is it that this can be so powerfully attractive?  Certainly it is not the brutality that draws us in.  It can only be the love.  The selfless, perfect, unmerited gift of love.

[1] Alcoholics Anonymous, p 25.

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Getting older is getting freer

Posted on March 20, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

“Why bother.”

“You’re only going to fail.”

“No one will support this.”

Being obedient to God can be daunting.  For one thing, if I am honest with myself, even when I sense very strongly that God is calling me to do some new thing, there is always that little voice of doubt.  There are no guarantees.

Spring arrived in my backyard last month -- but here's to Spring!

People often say that the older we humans get, the more risk averse we are.  Perhaps.  But I am finding the opposite to be true.  The older I get, the less time I have to waste waiting for certainty or guarantees, waiting for absolute clarity and a full picture to materialize.  With growing awareness of the finite number of days I have left — even if I live well into my 90s or later (my Aunt Katie is approaching her 104th birthday!) – comes a willingness to get on with it.

When I begin to move ahead, to live into new areas into which God seems to be drawing me, I always fall back on what has become known as The Merton Prayer.  Of particular comfort are the words, “I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.” When I remember this and check my motives, then I am good to go.  No matter what happens – even if I fail miserably – I find that God is present.  Even if I can’t see it at the time, I find that none of my “failures” are wasted, that God uses all for good.

Below is the Merton Prayer in its entirety.  May it bless you as it continues to bless me.


MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

– Thomas Merton, “Thoughts in Solitude”
© Abbey of Gethsemani

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Truth-telling and other brave acts

Posted on March 17, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

A dear friend told me recently, “You are very brave.” My inner critic was quick to tell me: Brave? Possibly.  Or perhaps you are mildly crazy or deluded.  I kept my mouth shut, but hoped my friend was right.

My friend’s response, her affirmation of my courage, startled me.  I certainly wasn’t feeling brave. I felt completely exposed, even a little light-headed, as I let the cat out of the bag and shared from my heart.  And, yet, that’s what bravery is, what courage is.  The word courage comes from middle English and Anglo-French meaning quite literally heart.

Yesterday a friend sent me a link to Brené Brown’s most recent TED talk (http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame.html).  Brown is still talking about shame though many wish she would avoid the word altogether.  She has made peace with the idea that we all have shame, and that the way out for each of us is in acknowledging it.  If we are willing to be vulnerable, if we can muster the courage to speak the truth, to step out of habitual silence, secrecy and judgment, then we have a chance for a life that is free and rich – a life that in Brown’s words is whole-hearted.

I am blessed to be in community with a number of people who are willing to risk vulnerability in their lives.  They show me how it’s done.  They show me what it means not just to be a work in progress, being molded by the Holy Spirit, but also to be an active participant in the process of transformation. To actually be willing to do something different or try something new.  When we boil it down, that’s what vulnerability is: action.

As part of St. Francis In-the-Field’s Lenten Recovery Eucharist services, each Thursday during March a different person offers a reflection on his or her spiritual journey. We are gifted by the vulnerability of these brave souls, by their willingness to speak the truth about their personal journey toward wholeness, of coming into relationship with a power greater than themselves.  They speak of their ambivalence around God and Church and how they have thrown themselves – their most vulnerable and at times shame-filled selves – at the possibility that God truly is Love, that God really does hold us in the palm of his hand no matter where we’ve been or where we may find ourselves now.  That God delights at being in relationship with his creatures.  We each have our own unique journey into which we are invited to live, but our journeys, if they are to be genuine and life-giving, are built from a common foundation of vulnerability and honesty.

Soon we will follow Jesus into the garden of Gethsemane, into the place of his greatest vulnerability.  He will show us yet again that if we are willing to risk it all — to act with a bravery that lays bare our heart of hearts — we will come to that Easter place of transformation that can be reached only through vulnerability.

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Love wins: always, always, always.

Posted on March 10, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:5)

This week has brought a deepening appreciation for the power of the Body of Christ gathering and affirming our faith, our confidence in the One who is.  Tuesday afternoon our community was shaken by the tragic murder-suicide that took the lives of Episcopal’s beloved head of school Dale D. Regan and teacher Shane Schumerth.

Small rocks, painted this week by students at Episcopal School of Jacksonville, were offered to mourners at the memorial service for Dale D. Regan

Though I did not attend Episcopal, I immediately thought of my many friends who did and especially of those who worked side-by-side with Dale for many years.  Throughout the week several parishes held vigils, and Tuesday night I attended the vigil at St. John’s Cathedral.  The instinct to gather and be together in God’s presence was striking.  Thank God for the beautiful liturgy of the Episcopal Church – Holy Scripture gracefully arranged to give us the words to pray when we are at loss for words.

Thursday evening at our Lenten Recovery Eucharist at St. Francis In-the-Field, we recognized that this event has forever changed us as a community even as we affirmed the presence of God and God’s ability to bring good out of the most tragic circumstances.  Several at our intimate gathering had connections to Episcopal School, as alumni, parents of alumni, and as former staff of the school.  At communion, we consecrated bread and wine to carry to the memorial service that would be held on campus the next day, on Friday, and so as a community we were able to join together, to offer our broken hearts to God and to know somehow that healing and transformation will occur.

The theme of all of our gatherings this week has been to affirm that light always overcomes and swallows up darkness, that love always prevails.  The Very Rev. Kate Moorehead summed it up during her homily at Friday’s memorial service as she addressed students and the wider community that flooded the campus to mourn with one another and to show support:

“We believe that Dale’s love lives on in each one of you, that it surrounds us, and we believe that this love has not only not been diminished by this violence but it has grown.”

At the end of the service, the 30 or more priests who served, fanned out across campus, to bless every nook and cranny with holy water and prayer, to reclaim this holy ground for the students and staff.  As I walked along a corridor, I met two lovely young men and asked them if there were some place in particular that would mean a lot to them if it were blessed.  “The baseball diamond,” one responded.  They escorted me out to the field and we walked the bases together talking about baseball and God and the need to reclaim this place for Good.  We blessed each position and the dugouts.  We blessed the batting cages and the stands where people come to watch them play.  We prayed for God’s presence and love and for a sense of safety and peace.  We prayed for joy.

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Giving up shame.

Posted on March 3, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(drawn by Helen Rae of First Street Gallery, Claremont, CA)

There is a fair amount of chatter these days about how best to observe a Holy Lent.  Many people choose the discipline of giving something up – like chocolate or wine or Facebook.  Others take something on – a new spiritual discipline, an extra visit to the altar rail for communion or a new 4th Step moral inventory and 5th step admission to oneself, to God and to another human being.  Others may wish to make confession to a priest.

On Ash Wednesday, as we marked the beginning of Lent, I avoided the “take-something-on/give-something-up” dichotomy, opting instead simply to be more intentional about time with God, however that may look. That intention continues.  But I’ve also decided to give something up and to take something on.

Specifically, I am giving up shame.  That corrosive emotion, as I know it, is neither healthy nor helpful.  When I give into it, it causes me to turn within, to hide from my brothers and sisters, to lose hope.  I hate shame.  I hate that I can still be victimized by it.  To be honest, I find that I am ashamed that in some areas of life I remain wired for shame, defaulting to a place of self-loathing and self-recrimination.

One area that carries a lot of shame for me is money.  This, I believe, is something that was to some degree inherited.  In my family of origin, we never talked about money, at least not directly.  Money was a source of tension – one that was enshrouded in an ominous aura of shame.  My beautiful mother had been raised that it is impolite to talk about money and she taught me well.  It is ironic and not by accident, I am sure, that I ended up working as a professional fundraiser for 17 years.  Without realizing it, money became my idol. Somehow I became convinced that, if I just had enough money, I would be safe.  I had no idea I was making money my idol – I just wanted to be safe.  And then I went to seminary.  Time to trust in God rather than in my earning potential.  As a new priest, the growing continues as I learn to embrace a simpler life.  I still imagine that it would be easier to trust God if I had a 7-figure trust fund.

The truth is I am having the love affair of my life.  When trouble hits (i.e. an unexpected, dramatic increase in liability insurance or an old oak tree that needs to come down), my body is racked with a visceral sense of deep shame, as I conclude that I will never get it all right, that I will never be able to take care of myself.  That I am somehow broken and not good enough, and soon it will be apparent to all.

There is hope.  I am learning to not resist this knee-jerk reaction to life’s circumstances — both those I cause and those that I know, at least intellectually, present themselves through no fault of my own.  When the deeply ingrained story of shame begins to play, that is my cue to throw myself into the arms of Jesus, to weep and give thanks that with him I have all that I need.  All else is temporary.  All else will pass away.  And then, if I really want to disarm this “enemy” shame, I call a friend and tell the truth about what is going on.

My Lenten discipline is this:  I am taking on a practice that researcher and author Brene Brown calls shame resilience (“the ability to recognize shame and move through it while maintaining our worthiness and authenticity”) in her book The Gifts of Imperfection.  I am giving up shame – not with the idea that I will never again experience this painful emotion, but rather with a commitment to not let a sense of shame run me.

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What we are made for.

Posted on February 28, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

Hoping against hope, he believed that he would become ‘the father of many nations’, according to what was said, ‘So numerous shall your descendants be.’ He did not weaken in faith when he considered his own body, which was already as good as dead (for he was about a hundred years old), or when he considered the barrenness of Sarah’s womb.  No distrust made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, being fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised. (Romans 4:18-21)

Last week I attended a clergy retreat that focused on forgiveness.  Our leader, Father William Meninger, incorporated times of silent and guided meditation, and then for the most part shared a series of stories, illustrating the journey toward forgiveness.  He was wise to describe forgiveness as a process that happens over time rather than a single act or decision.  While it helps to decide within ourselves that we are going to forgive some person, group or institution that we feel has wounded us, it is likely we will need to make that decision again and again, possibly even renewing it one day at a time.

My grandfather Joseph Thomas Pfohl (“Joe Joe”) was an incredibly kind and loving man.  I cannot remember his ever uttering a harsh word to or about anyone.  My grandmother, on the other hand, was proud of her cocktail napkins that read: “If you can’t say anything nice about anyone, come sit by me.” She felt that Joe Joe’s family had wronged him somehow and that it was her duty to carry and nurture bitterness for him.  Thankfully, very late in her life (she died one month shy of her 97th birthday), she managed to let go of this load.  She managed to forgive.

As children, my brother and I rode beside Joe Joe in the front seat of his shiny black Buick.  He drove slowly, taking care to toot his horn and wave to anyone on the road or walking on the sidewalk.  The neighbor kids got a kick out of this unusual degree of friendliness, and, as we got older, my brother and I found this a little embarrassing.  Such comprehensive kindness was more the norm back in small town North Carolina than in Jacksonville, FL.  Whenever we drove through the North Carolina mountains, Joe Joe would stop at every mom-and-pop store or filling station and visit with the owners.  He genuinely wanted to know how they were fairing. Joe Joe couldn’t be any other way.

I learned as an adult, long after my grandfather’s death, just how giving he had been.  For decades he led the band at the Home Moravian Church in Winston-Salem.  He mentored kids and recruited many to play in the band. This often meant finding a used instrument for them and then patiently teaching them to play (Joe Joe could play anything).  The downstream effect is incalculable, but I have had occasion to become acquainted with a man he impacted greatly.  This man, Wesley, is a life-long Methodist who still plays in the Home Moravian Church band.

When I first met Wesley I didn’t know of his connection to my grandfather.  I only knew that he was gracious enough to look after my grandmother, simply as a kindness, expecting nothing in return.  When I asked him what motivated this, he shared the story of meeting my grandfather.  Wesley was a young boy from a poor rural family.  Joe Joe was helping to establish a mission church outside of Winston-Salem, when he found Wesley and asked if he’d like to learn to play an instrument.  Joe Joe refurbished an old trumpet for him and the rest is history.  He attributes his success to Joe Joe’s consistent interest and attention.  Wesley was the first in his family to attend college.  It is impossible to count the number of children that Joe Joe reached through his ministry of love, embracing those in his midst and teaching others, by example, to do the same.

Jesus tells us to love our enemies, that if we do this, then ultimately we will be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect (Matt 5:44-48).  Our retreat leader spoke of this call to love our enemies.  Sometimes it sounds like Jesus is asking us to do the impossible, that we are doomed to failure.  And we are.  Like Abram, we are as good as dead.  It is then that we turn to God, trusting God to do the impossible, to breathe life into lifeless bones, to breathe love into hearts that have been tainted by human envy, jealousy, pride and suspicion.  God tells us to love our enemies precisely because that is the only language God, who is Love, knows.  There is no life for us in anything that is not love, because love is what we are made for.

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Only Jesus.

Posted on February 16, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

Suddenly, when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.  As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.
Mark 9:8-9

Most of the people we encounter who are doing meaningful work, who create and contribute, can usually point to one or more times in their lives when they have been supported or guided by a capable person willing to share the wisdom of years of experience.  We often hear folks, upon receiving public recognition, say this: “I stand on the shoulders of giants.”  This nod to mentors has become cliché, because there is much truth in those words.

My father, a dedicated judge who is still going strong, speaks fondly of those who came before him and who shared their wisdom along the way.  Judge Warren Jones. Chief Justice Warren Burger. Justice Byron White. Judge Robert Vance.  Dad has been a judge for about 45 years – and I think it is safe to say what he loves most – beyond a deep and abiding respect for the law  – is the opportunity to mentor brilliant young folks who have served as his law clerks.  He loves watching them venture out.  One former clerk – Case Western law professor Michael Scharf — was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize in 2005 for his international work providing pro bono legal assistance for leaders working on peace negotiations and the prosecution of major war criminals.  According to numerous profiles, Scharf maintains that peace and justice are inextricably linked.

Taken at Trinity Episcopal, St. Augustine, FL

When it comes to mentor relationships, it is rarely possible to point to a single source to explain an individual’s courage or success, but, when we find a person who has grown into a life of service, usually we can look back and find that at various points in time they have benefitted from a mentor, from someone of depth and practical wisdom. These needn’t be long-term relationships. Exposure here and there can often be sufficient to have a profound, cumulative effect.  Mentors are our guides along the way, but, even the wisest ones cannot anticipate the exact place to which we are called.

Next Sunday we follow the story of Elisha, who must come to terms with the sudden departure of his mentor Elijah (2 Kings 2:1-12).  He cannot bear the thought of this and, in his insecurity, asks for a double-portion of whatever it is that Elijah has.  He watches in horror as Elijah is taken up in a whirlwind.  He tears his clothing when he finds himself alone.  He is left in the in-between time and must now grow into his full stature.  Even with all that he has inherited, he must discover who he, Elisha, is meant to be.  No one else can do this for him.

Similarly, after witnessing the transfiguration of Jesus, Peter, James and John must come to terms with the reality that they cannot capture or contain Moses and Elijah on the mountain.  They cannot grip their history too tightly. They must not cling to a single moment.  They must trust enough to let go.  To wait and find out that God is doing a new thing through Jesus, transforming all things.

During times of change, during times when I can sense God at work doing a new thing or calling me to a new place, I tend to be drawn to people who appear to have been successful in moving through their own journeys of creative change and growth.  I take comfort in hearing stories of faith, courage and risk.  Their stories are evidence that stepping into uncharted territory is not only survivable but well worth the risking. So, I do my homework, seeking people out, asking questions, making notes.  But there comes a time when I must venture out, when I must walk that path that is being revealed ever so slightly in front of me.  There are moments when I must make friends with the sense that I am all alone, at least for a season.  I must make friends with the reality that there is no one else there, no one else inhabiting this particular point on this particular journey.  Well, almost no one.  Only Jesus.

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The face of Christ

Posted on February 10, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

Photo taken at Trinity Episcopal Church, St. Augustine, FL

God is everywhere.

Jesus promises to be with us always.

All that is.  This is what God holds in his palm, according to Julian of Norwich.

We like statements of certainty that affirm God’s presence and action in our lives, especially those that can fit on a bumper sticker or be committed to memory without too much trouble.

And, yet, there are so many times in our lives and in our world when the cares and concerns of life crowd out any awareness of God’s presence.  It can seem like we have pushed God away with our selfish ways or, worse still, as if God has abandoned us.  There are times and places when we experience a sense of tremendous lack, either in terms of basic human necessities or on an emotional or spiritual level.   A sense of bankruptcy is part of the human experience, regardless of our position in life.

Recently I found myself seated in a small circle with some new friends.  They had gathered for Morning Prayer at the edge of a poorly tended parking lot in an overlooked corner of downtown Atlanta.  Twice a week like clockwork, Pastor Mary brings chairs, prayer books, and coffee and biscuits, and her regular congregants wander over to help set up.  One older man, thin and tired-looking, started us off with song.  He shut his eyes and began singing deeply from his heart, in a way that transformed the tenor of our gathering, that invited in the Holy Spirit.  Church was underway.  The generosity of God took over in the prayers of the people as we offered our needs and hopes before God, followed by prayers of thanksgiving and praise for all the blessings of this life.  One young man was grateful for the small brown bird that undergirded our prayers with its energetic, jubilant offering of song from a delicate perch at the tip of the dead tree limb that hovered over us.

This tender time of prayer and presence with each other shone on the face of poverty and lack until the face of Jesus was revealed.

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