But as much as I pray, for others and even myself, I rarely ask others to pray for me. I am not sure why really. Maybe I feel like people are busy or God knows what I need. Regardless, I don’t tend to solicit prayers. But this past month has involved a lot of upheaval. I am transitioning between jobs, and the prayer concerns seem endless. My current parish has been sorting through their own grief and anxiety about the change. My future parish has been preparing to receive me and is handling logistics on their end. And my family is juggling everything: from the emotional toll of the transition, to buying our first home, to finding a new job for my husband, and finding new schools and childcare for our children.

So this week, I finally asked for prayer. I asked a colleague group of mine and some close friends to pray. The response was immediate and overwhelming. Sharing the burden seemed to lessen the burden. Feeling connected to a community of support gave me comfort and strength. And thinking about their prayers made me realize there are other people praying, too. My current parish has a prayer group that is praying for us. My future parish has a weekly prayer they are offering for me, my family, and for them. Even my mom’s Bible Study group is praying for us. And that probably does not even count the myriad other people who are praying for me without me realizing it.

As I marveled in the community of saints lifting me up in prayer this week, I realized maybe that is part of the power of prayer: prayer reminds us that we are not alone. When we join in prayer with others, we remember that we are not on our own in this life. The vast web of prayer gives us a tiny glimpse into the enormous love of our God for us. This week I am grateful for the reminder of the power of a prayerful community. I encourage you to reach out to your own communities if you are in need of prayer. And if you are feeling less needy this week, then reach out to someone else who might need your prayers. We are not alone and we need each other.

So imagine my surprise this week, while on a quick trip down to the DC area, I ran into a former parishioner while waiting to get on my return Amtrak train. What I had anticipated as being a long, quiet trip of catching up on work and sleep turned into a fun, vibrant train ride with an old friend. Being from Delaware, he got off at Wilmington, while I continued on to NYC. But the unexpected moment of recognition and time together was a tremendous treat. Suddenly my searching the crowds in D.C. did not seem so unreasonable!

Though I often make fun of myself about my silly habit, I wondered this week if my practice of searching crowds of strangers for familiarity is, in fact, an exercise in hope. One of our deepest longings is to be known and loved. Being known makes us feel valued, affirmed, and comforted. It gives us a sense of belonging, and harkens back the knowledge that we are beloved children of God. But asking to be known is a hard thing to do – it requires vulnerability, openness to rejection, and letting down one’s guard. Most of the time, when I scan crowds, I am sorely disappointed. But every once in a while, a joyous reunion of recognition and being known happens – not unlike stumbling into Jesus’ open arms.

This coming Sunday in Lent is referred to as “Rose Sunday,” a Sunday of refreshment half-way through Lent. I wonder in what ways we might take a break for penitence and reflection on our sinfulness and remember to walk in the world as a people of hope. In what ways are you searching the crowds for reminders that you are a beloved child of God? Keep an eye out so you don’t miss those gracious moments of recognition, affirmation, and hope.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!    Luke 13.34

One of my youngest daughter’s favorite books is Llama Llama Red Pajama. In the book, Baby Llama does his nighttime routine and then his mother goes downstairs. Baby Llama cannot sleep and starts to whine for his Mama. Baby Llama gets more and more frustrated as Mama Llama does not respond.

Eventually, Baby Llama ends up screaming frantically, and Mama Llama comes sprinting up the stairs to see what calamity awaits. When she realizes Baby Llama is “crying wolf,” she immediately fusses at Baby Llama. But by the next page, she is reassuring and calming Baby Llama, helping him fall back asleep.

Every time I read the book with my daughter, I find the transition from panic, to scolding, to loving care too abrupt. No sooner have I harnessed my best scolding voice while reading when the words force me to return to my sugar-coated reading voice.

In real life, I am never that quick to change tone. Once I am annoyed or scolding, I find it difficult to change gears. My “serious voice” is hard to lose too quickly. Though I am a “mama” myself, I am not nearly as gracious about turning my anger or frustration so quickly to loving-kindness.

Luckily Jesus is much more like Mama Llama than me. In the same breath, he accuses Jerusalem of killing prophets, and then expresses his deep desire to gather Jerusalem’s people together under his wings like a mother hen.

Every time I read this verse of scripture, I can hear the heartache of Jesus. To be able to see the sinfulness of one’s child, and yet still long for reconciliation is unique to those whom we love unconditionally.

In Jesus’ aching words we hear the voice of every mom who has watched her teenage daughter rebel against her. In Jesus’ aching words we hear the voice of every father who has watching his son fall back into the grasp of addiction one more time. In Jesus’ aching words we hear the voices of every parent who wants to protectively care for their toddlers, but also knows that their toddlers have to learn independence and self-sufficiency, and that they will never achieve that if their parent keeps coddling them.

I remember when our first child entered the years of establishing her independence. Being a first-time parent, I had become accustomed to having a pliable baby that basically did what I wanted because she had no control over her body. Little did I realize what was coming.

When our daughter first started trying to do things on her own, she did not like help. Instead of stepping back and letting her try though, I tried to physically out-maneuver her. It is amazing how strong those little arms and legs can be. I remember feeling exhausted night after night trying to force her to do things the way I knew was easiest. I eventually learned to let go and let her learn how to do things through trial and error.

But oh, how I longed to gather her under my wings and just take care of her.

What I love about this text from Luke is although Jesus longs to gather Jerusalem under his wings like a mother hen, he does not. Although he laments the ways in which it would just be easier for everyone if Jerusalem just allowed Jesus to lovingly mother her, Jesus does not force Jerusalem. Unlike my physical wrestling matches with my firstborn, Jesus knows better than to try to out-wrestle Jerusalem.

He lets her sin. He lets her kill the prophets and stone the messengers. He even lets her kill him.

Because although a loving mother longs to safely protect and gather her little ones, the wise mother lets her little ones learn from their mistakes and actively choose to return to the mother. That is all any parent can do – set her children free in the hopes that they will return full of deeper appreciation of the unconditional love they already have. It does not mean that the parent – or God, for that matter – still doesn’t long to gather her children under her wings.

But the marker of true, steadfast love is the letting go. I am grateful for a Savior that longs to be in relationship with me, but allows me to come to him on my own terms. May my own loving kindness to others be equally free of restriction. Amen.

Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly is rector and pastor of the Episcopal Church of St. Margaret in Plainview, New York, and a contributor to Project Pomegranate’s book "Though the Darkness Gather Round, Devotions about Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss." She blogs at  Seeking and Serving.

One of those sweet practices that passed away over a year ago was rocking her to sleep at night in her rocking chair. I even remember rocking her when I was pregnant with my almost two-year old. But last night, out of the blue, she asked me to rock her. I had a list a mile long of things I needed to attend to last night, and the awkwardness of rocking my lanky 45-inch child seemed challenging. But those thoughts only took me a nanosecond to process. “Sure!” I told her. She somehow managed to curl her long body into my lap, resting her head on my chest. Time stood still for a moment as we rocked. I remembered how small her body had once been and I thought how incredible it was to have her back in my arms again. What a gift from my child.

Last week I announced to my parish that I had accepted a call to another parish. It has been a hard week, full of all sorts of reactions. Though I am excited about where God is calling me, I am also quite sad to leave a group of people who have loved me like family. It colors Lent for all of us, as we prepare to say goodbye on Easter Sunday.

Thinking about my experience with my daughter and all that is happening at St. Margaret’s, I decided that my Lenten discipline this year is to just be present: be present to those who need to express their anger at my leaving; be present to those who want to express their anxiety and concern; and be present to those who want to take a quiet moment to reflect on the goodness and tenderness of these last years. It may sound simple or ambiguous, but for me, that is the gift I can give St. Margaret’s as I take my leave – the gift of my presence. Please know that I am here – to meet you where you are and walk with you during this Lenten journey.

As we talked about this law, we were initially outraged. The law hardly seemed fair. If someone sideswipes you, runs a stop sign, or hits you while distracted, why should you be responsible for someone else’s fault. We hypothesized about whether there might have been some way for her to give the driver a wider berth to avoid the accident – basically being a better defensive driver. But we both could imagine situations in which there is no way to see an accident coming. To us, the law just did not seem fair.

Today, as I was thinking about Lent and forgiveness, I was reminded of my friend’s accident. The more I thought about New York’s rule, the more I realized that New York may be on to something. You see, whenever we talk about forgiveness, we often think of ourselves needing to forgive someone else for something they have done to us. Letting go of anger is an important step toward meaningful forgiveness. But solely focusing on the actions of the other lets us off the hook from thinking about the ways we may have contributed to problem that needs forgiving. I am not suggesting that the blame is 50-50. But the blame might be 90-10 or even 80-20. Anyone who has been married or who has navigated close friendships or family relationships knows that even when we are totally in the right, there is always a little blame to be shared by all.

As we start our Lenten journey, I invite you to consider taking an inventory of those relationships in your life that need mending or healing. As you prayerfully consider those relationships, review the ways in which you have participated in the relationship and what ways you might hold some of the fault for the brokenness of the relationship. The work will not be easy – we like being right so much that we may not be able to really consider mending those relationships. But as you journey through the complicated web of fault and forgiveness, consider praying the Lord’s Prayer again: forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. My prayers are with you on the journey.

Attending a wedding this weekend, hearing the story of Cana in Sunday’s lectionary, and thinking about our own daughter Cana, I cannot help but be left with a sense of gratitude for the gift of abundant joy given to us by Jesus in his first miracle. There are parts of Jesus’ story that are neither joyful nor abundant. But this first miracle gives us a taste – a literal and delightful taste – of the abundance of God’s love and kingdom. I really cannot seem to wipe the smile off my face when I think of any of the three of those reminders of Jesus’ abundance and grace.

Perhaps that is why I am so saddened by the continued discord in the Anglican Communion about gay marriage. In my country, the occasion of the legalization and blessing of gay marriage in the Episcopal Church has been a source of great joy for my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, as well as their allies. That, coupled with the ordination of gay and lesbian clergy, has left many in our church feeling a deep connection to the joy and abundance that Christ brings. And yet, that joy is bringing great sadness to a large portion of the Anglican Communion. Here we are at the earthly banquet, and instead of a joyful occasion of abundance, we are at a different feast – one where family drama and strife is overshadowing the joy of some of our members.

The irony of the wedding of Cana being appointed for the same Sunday that the Episcopal Church is grappling with the Anglican Communion Primates’ decision to suspend the full participation of the Episcopal Church in the life and work of the Anglican Communion is not lost on me. But maybe that is the truth of every wedding – the constant tension between heavenly grace and abundance and human sinfulness and frailty. Behind every dreamy wedding is some glossed over (or sometimes very obvious) family drama. But even in the midst of family tension, there are usually moments of grace – glimpses of the abundance Jesus wants to shower upon us. That is what I am grasping onto this week: in the midst of pain, and facing the ambiguity of these next years in the Anglican Communion, God will keep breaking through with abundance, joy, and miracle. Though I do not know all the answers to the biblical or the ecclesiastical story, I am grateful for the gift of Cana.

So after 10 days of vacation at home with our extended family, you can imagine how happy I was that the children would be returning to their routines. We had a lovely time off and even the adults got regular naps, but there were also a lot of time-outs due to poor behavior. The lack of a routine was making the kids a little out of sorts. So by Tuesday of this week, I was so relieved to see the return of my lovely, beautiful 6-year-old. I knew she was in there somewhere!

Though I single out kids, the truth is adults benefit from routine as much as children. One of the consistent conversations I have with recent retirees is their struggle with the loss of a routine. What at first feels like freedom can instead feel like a sense of loss. Once they figure out a volunteer routine, a regular schedule of lunches with friends, or even plan periodic trips to look forward to, the retirees find a sense of calm and purpose.

Our relationship with God is like that, too. When we fall out of the routine of prayer, we find connecting with God more difficult. When we fall out of the habit of going to church, we find our weekends are missing something valuable. When we fall out of the pattern of regular learning and serving, we find our relationship with God is not as deep as might like. As we begin a new year, I invite you back into the comfort of routine. I invite you to consider what you might like to change in your everyday routine that might enrich your relationship with God. It may be that you want to sit down and consider a rule of life you want to follow. Or it may be as simple as deciding you want to do one thing – go to church more regularly, pray each night, or read devotionally. Whatever the routine you take up might be, my guess is that God will be happy to see the return of your lovely and beautiful self!

Her words to me were both funny and profound. I felt sympathy for this little first grader who is trying her best. But I also felt an odd sense of relief. I thought to myself, “I’m so glad I am an adult and don’t have to worry about ‘being good’ anymore!” Then today, we read the lessons for the feast day for Karl Barth. The epistle was from Paul’s letter to the Romans (7.14-25). Paul says, “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate … For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” It dawned on me that I was being self-righteous with my daughter. As adults, we do not ever “grow out of” struggling to be good. Adults struggle with our sinful nature as much as children do.

Karl Barth knew a little about sinfulness. During the rise of Hitler, Barth argued that the Church’s allegiance to God in Christ gave the Church the moral imperative to challenge the rule and violence of Hitler. In fact, when Barth refused to swear an oath to Hitler, he lost his professorship. One of the greatest theological minds of the twentieth century, Barth argued about sin that the Incarnation was the bridge between God’s revelation and human sin.

Talking about sin during Advent may seem strange to some. Most of us are more focused on buying gifts, preparing our homes, and going to parties. But the reason we have to celebrate in the first place is the nativity of our Lord – that bridge between God’s revelation and human sin. Even in the first weeks of Advent, we hear from John the Baptist telling us to repent of our sins. The time of Advent is not the Church’s way of delaying the gratification of Christmas. Advent is an invitation to prepare our hearts and minds for the Christ Child. Part of that preparation is examining our own sinfulness – to right our relationship with God, with ourselves, and with one another. Being “good” is not easy. But Advent is our reminder to keep trying – even when being good is hard. My suspicion is that our work of repentance will not only warm our hearts with the forgiveness we receive from God, but also help us to be agents of forgiveness. Lord knows we’ll need a heap of that too when the holidays come!

To help combat this tendency, I have taken up two spiritual disciplines – one with my family and one with my Church. The discipline my family is taking on is the 40-day bag challenge. We are taking turns with the bags, figuring out who will be purging what areas. But the idea is that by clearing out space in our home we might also clear out space for one another and for God.

The other discipline is reading the Advent and Christmastide devotional book, Night Visions, by Jan L. Richardson. Richardson combines reflections, art, and poetry each day to take us out of ourselves and to help us reconnect with the quiet, intentional invitation of Advent. Our parish is reading this book together as part of our “Reading with the Rector” program. My hope is that by regular, short readings, I will get the boost I need to re-center each day in hope, waiting, and quiet expectation.

I mention these two disciplines not because I am proud or because I think my disciplines are particularly praiseworthy this Advent. I mention these two disciplines because I want your help. I want your help to keep me accountable to the life I want to have as priest, a wife, a mother, and member of my community, especially in a season when I could easily be tempted to do otherwise. That’s the funny thing about spiritual disciplines. Though they are personal and individual, we experience the most success in our disciplines when we share them within the community of faith. So feel free to message me here, email me, or post questions on my Facebook wall. And if you need help with your own disciplines, I’m happy to ask you about yours too. Maybe together we can prepare our hearts for that most sacred night with the Christ Child. I’m in. Are you

But that has not been the case this week. This week I found myself in two situations I would have never anticipated. On Sunday night, our parish hosted the Long Island Transgender Day of Remembrance. I had no role in crafting the liturgy or planning the evening. I simply offered our space and was asked to give an opening and closing prayer. In fact, the planning committee warned me that this would not be like a “church service” – so I should not get my hopes up! But as I sat in my pew, watching testimonial after testimonial, listening to over eighty names of those who were murdered because of their transgender identity, and hearing beautiful music about the wideness of God’s love and the call to love “the other” – I tell you, I experienced “Church.” You see, Church is supposed to be about worshiping our God who shows mercy and compassion, who calls us to love the outcast and the oppressed, and who compels us to go out and witness the Good News of God in Christ. Sunday night, I felt like the Good News came back inside and witnessed to me.

On Tuesday night, I participated in my fourth Plainview-Old Bethpage Interfaith Thanksgiving Service. Every year I find the service moving. I am grateful for a holiday that we can all honor without fear of stepping on each other’s toes. But as I sat there last night, I became acutely aware of my surroundings. On my left sat the Mufti from the local Muslim community and on my right sat the priest from the local Roman Catholic parish. It occurred to me in that moment that the Mufti usually only says prayers with men. The women pray separately. And yet, there we were, side by side, giving thanks to God. It also occurred to me that although the priest has been warm and affirming, his Church does not recognize my ordination as appropriately apostolic – especially given my gender. And yet, there we were, as equal leaders in our respective communities. Despite having had long relationships with the fellow clergy leaders, this was the first time I realized how radical our relationships are – to sit next to each other despite profound differences – and yet still be able to praise, lead, and worship together. 

Truthfully, I do not know what God is doing this week. On a basic level, I suspect God is reminding me that I am not even close to having “seen it all.” But on a deeper level, I also suspect that God is inviting me to go further, to delve deeper, and to see more widely. Perhaps a disadvantage to my profession is a naïve sense that I have a hold on who this God is that we worship and serve. This week, God has humbled me by reminding me that God is so much more. As I anticipate celebrating Eucharist on Thanksgiving Day, I expect to approach the Table with keener sense of wonder, gratitude, and awe for the ways in which God is so much more. What a blessed gift this week has been. Thanks be to God for being more than I could ask for or imagine!