worship

Lent liturgical seasons Means of grace sacramental Uncategorized worship

Anointing

by Jessica Petersen

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’s feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”  — John 12:1-8, NRSVUE

I have found this story compelling for as long as I can remember. My memory of it goes back to hearing this story as a little girl in church. And by “this story,” I mean the narrative in which Jesus is anointed by a woman. It wasn’t until I began studying scripture deeply as a young adult that I realized each gospel tells a distinctive version of what I had previously thought of as “this story” (which was actually a conglomeration of four distinct narratives). While the setting and details vary, in each of the four narratives Jesus is anointed by a woman and at least one person who is present objects.

While my childhood mind could not grasp the complexities of the culture in which this event took place, I was amazed by the woman’s boldness and confused by the responses of the objectors. I don’t remember the sermons I heard on this story; I simply remember hearing the story, one that stood out because I so rarely heard stories in church in which women were central to the narrative. It seemed to me that the woman was honoring Jesus, that she was doing something important, and it irritated me that her actions were questioned. I remember wanting the woman’s offering and act of service for Jesus to be simply good, without objection. In my dualistic childhood mind, I could not grasp that perhaps the objection is what makes her action even more significant…that perhaps the objection to her actions is the reason that the story is told at all…

Last week, as I re-read John’s account of this event, I experienced it differently than I ever have before. The story of the anointing in the gospel of John takes place in Bethany – two miles outside Jerusalem – in the home of Lazarus, whom Jesus has raised back to life. We know that Jesus has a close relationship with Lazarus (described in John 11:30 as “he whom you love”) and his sisters, Mary and Martha. Judas is the only other individual present who is named (and he is the objector), but it seems likely that the other disciples were also present. This anointing takes place at a dinner among friends, given by friends, and Jesus is anointed by someone close to him. And all of this occurs following another significant event with this same family – the raising of Lazarus – which precipitated the plot to kill Jesus.

It is impossible to consider this story without contemplating the juxtaposition of life and death. Lazarus has died and now has been raised to new life. Jesus is headed toward Jerusalem, where the religious leaders are plotting his death as the celebration of Passover approaches. This was no ordinary dinner. The gathered community likely experienced commingled feelings of celebration and grief, gratitude and sorrow, in the midst of anxious circumstances.

Let’s take a look back at what precedes this dinner. We last encountered Mary and Martha in John 11. They are grief-stricken after the death of their brother, who died in spite of their request for Jesus to come. The women use their voices to express their frustration and grief, both separately saying to Jesus when he arrived: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” There’s a lot going on in John 11 that I explore at length in this sermon, including Martha’s role as a disciple of Jesus, the one who makes a Christological confession of his identity: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world” (John 11:27). It is also Martha who – because of the smell – protests Jesus’ instructions to open her brother’s tomb. She has a point; I imagine the stench of death would have been unbearable. We know what happens next: the tomb is opened, Jesus calls to Lazarus, and he is raised to life again.

That brings us back to John 12, to this dinner given in Jesus’ honor. Lazarus reclines at the table with Jesus, while Martha serves, and there is another scent that permeates this story: the fragrance of perfume. I wonder if the stench of death had entirely dissipated, or if it still hung in the air, the aromas commingled alongside the mixed emotions. Through her offering of a lavish gift of love poured out upon Jesus’ feet, Mary makes more palpable that which has perhaps remained unsaid: Jesus, their beloved teacher, will not be with them much longer. In a way made possible only by such liminal space, Mary engages in this intimate act of anointing – pouring out expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet, and kneeling before him, wiping them with her hair. Through this act of service, Mary honors Jesus and expresses her devotion to the one who means more to her than words can express. Mary does not speak, but through her actions, she is a model for discipleship. Mary sees who Jesus is and proclaims what she sees. She preaches without words.

It is significant that Mary poured the perfume on Jesus’ feet and not his head. Traditionally, a King (as Jesus would be called by the people during the Triumphal Entry, which immediately follows) would have been anointed on his head by a prophet or a priest. Instead, Jesus was anointed on his feet by a woman. Those who called him king had missed the point. Jesus was anointed not to a position of power and authority, but as one who had intentionally become less – God dwelling on the earth, walking around with dirt between his toes. He was anointed not by an authority figure, but by someone with no authority at all – a woman, a close friend, who sees and knows who he is, who has experienced and been part of his ministry, who has followed him as a disciple, who knows that his feet were essential to his ministry among the people as he traveled around preaching, teaching, and healing. And perhaps, through this anointing, Mary also grieves for the one who has transformed death into new life, not just for her brother, but as a foreshadowing of what is to come as Jesus nears Jerusalem and his own impending death.

Mary’s anointing of Jesus is an act of service and an extravagant response of love of both God and neighbor, and she does it before Jesus even gives the command in John 13:34: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” Jesus gives this instruction after washing his disciples’ feet. Interestingly, the Greek verb ἐκμάσσω (ekmassō) is used to describe both Mary’s actions in wiping Jesus’ feet with her hair, as well as Jesus’ action of drying his disciples’ feet after washing them (John 13:5). As Mary has shown him love, by anointing his feet and wiping them with her hair, so Jesus demonstrates love to his disciples. Surely, Mary’s act of anointing was on Jesus’ mind as he washed his disciples’ feet on their final night together. His act mirrors hers.

In just a few days, on Maundy Thursday, we will have the opportunity to experience this in worship, to have our feet washed by another as an act of love. I hope you will consider becoming vulnerable by allowing someone to serve you in this way. While it might be uncomfortable, in my experience, it is in discomfort that the Spirit sometimes moves most powerfully.

As we journey through Holy Week – this time of walking through the final events leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion and anticipating his resurrection – may we hold this story of the anointing in our minds and in our hearts. Perhaps we will even be inspired to respond with our bodies, our whole selves, as Mary did – with extravagant love toward God and neighbor, in honor of the one who is the giver of new life.

Advent Means of grace Uncategorized worship

Lighting Candles 

by Jessica Petersen

This fall has been challenging, for a lot of reasons. And while I won’t go into the specifics here, things became particularly difficult just as daylight savings time began, and the darkness began to descend an hour earlier each day, when the days were already getting shorter. And it felt like the world around me was making a difficult season even harder by becoming darker when what I longed for was light. In fact, my prayer throughout this fall has been: “God, please bring it into the light…”

One evening in mid-November, after a particularly long and discouraging day, in which I felt like everything was moving backward instead of forward, I read this: 

“Lighting a candle feels like doing something, even though it’s tiny. The flame reminds me that it only takes a small amount of light to push back the dark, and that it’s possible to be both constant and fluid at the same time…I may not have answers, next steps, or clarity. But I can take this match, light this candle, say a prayer, and trust that God is with me now and now and now. This I know for sure.” — Emily P. Freeman, “When You Feel Like Something is Ending But You Don’t Know What”

And I remembered that I used to have a regular practice of lighting candles. I would light a candle during my morning prayer time. I would light a candle when I was writing or focusing on a specific creative project. I would light a candle simply to remind me that I was not alone. But over the last several years, my practice of lighting candles gradually diminished for a variety of reasons (mostly, having to do with safety around babies/toddlers and the rearranging of a house that occurs to accommodate children in it day-to-day). It wasn’t intentional. And I didn’t realize until I read this how rarely I light candles these days.  

The next morning, when I awoke early before the rest of my family (as I usually do, to have some quiet time in prayer), I lit a candle. That simple ritual transformed my prayer time that day. Lighting that candle felt like doing something. Even if I could not do anything to alter or improve the myriad of things weighing heavily on me, I could light a candle and pray, and that was doing something. The flame dancing next to me was a reminder that I was not alone in that moment, and that I am not ever alone. And in the light of that candle, the room looked different, and the challenges and difficulties I was experiencing looked different, too. My perspective changed. And I have continued to light a candle every morning since then, reclaiming this practice for myself. 

Fast forward a few weeks. Last weekend, we decorated our house for Christmas, and I’ll admit, I was grumpy about it. I just didn’t feel ready. For me, it didn’t matter what the calendar said, it wasn’t time yet. I longed to ease into Advent slowly this year. But our daughters were enthusiastically playing Christmas music the day after Thanksgiving and I was putting in my earbuds to block it out. We put up the tree. I got out the Christmas linens. We hung the garland. But I wasn’t in the spirit of it. The one thing I wanted to do was set up the Advent wreath. So, I did that, and I let others take the lead on much of the rest. 

On Sunday evening, after a morning of complete chaos at church (first Sunday of Advent, communion Sunday, covering for a staff member on vacation), our family sat down and lit the first candle on our Advent wreath. It was a moment of stillness as that flame danced before us, and that’s when I began to feel my grumpiness softening, my resistance decreasing, and perhaps a hint of anticipation beginning to grow… 

On Thursday evening, David and I went to Candlelight at Southwestern University, my alma mater. Attending this worship service each December is really important to me, and it’s the one opportunity I have during Advent to worship without leading or being responsible for anything at all. It concludes with lighting candles, the dimming of the lights and the glow of the dancing flames, reminding us of the light of Christ shining in the darkness. And that room full of candles ushered me into this season when we anticipate the coming of the light.

I still have a lot on my mind. The hard things are still hard. But the practice of lighting candles has reminded me, again and again in recent weeks, that – in the words of Emily P. Freeman – “God is with me now and now and now. This I know for sure.” I knew that before I reclaimed this practice for myself. But the embodied practice of lighting candles, the visual of the flame next to me, the change in the light and the smell of the room…that has transformed my experience of this season of darkness, and for that, I am extremely grateful.

Do a simple thing today, friends: light a candle, and wait to see what happens. 

sacramental United Methodist Church worship

Hope for the UMC

by Jessica Petersen

Note: This post is a reflection on the 2020 (in 2024) General Conference of the United Methodist Church. If this is not relevant to you, you might want to skip this one. If you want news on General Conference, you can find commentary on Pastor Jeff’s blog, or some brief highlights and my thoughts integrated into a sermon in yesterday’s worship service.

I’ve been feeling them for almost 2 weeks: birth pangs. Let me be clear: this simply metaphorical. And yet, it feels remarkably similar to when I was actually on the verge of giving birth. Something is coming, a new thing is being birthed in the United Methodist Church. Hope is alive. Joy is in the air.

As we approached this General Conference, the only thing I was pregnant with was anxiety. After a series of frustrating and disappointing General Conferences, I had high hopes and admittedly low expectations for this General Conference. I prayed fervently for a more inclusive church. I prayed that we would take steps as a denomination that would enable us to do contextual ministry, that we would remove the harmful and restrictive language regarding LGBTQ+ individuals, that we would affirm social principles that would honor the diversity of our denomination, that we would come out of this General Conference with greater unity. I hoped for all of it, but I don’t know how much of that I believed would happen. After all, I have been conditioned to be disappointed by General Conference. 

I began to feel the birth pangs, at first farther apart, more mild, as legislative committees approved legislation moving us toward being a more inclusive church, but I didn’t get too excited. I knew there was plenty of room for things to change course. But the birth pangs began to get closer together and stronger as the entire body, vote after vote, often with overwhelming majority, began to move the church toward inclusion.

My experience in the last 2 weeks bore some similarity to the day our second child was born. She was overdue by several days, and I was beyond ready for her arrival. But here’s what you need to know: for nearly 2 months, I had been having contractions daily, and they weren’t “practice” contractions; they were productive. For a period of time, I was being watched for premature labor, and every doctor I saw (due to complications, I had appointments 2-3 times/week in my 3rd trimester) was convinced our daughter would be born early. Many times in those final months of my pregnancy, I thought “this is it…she’s coming today” and then the contractions would stop. When I reached my due date and she stayed put beyond it, I had also been conditioned not to get my hopes up that contractions meant “real” labor. So, when I awoke to contractions early on the morning of our daughter’s birth, I noticed them, and then went about my day. However, this time, they didn’t stop. Still not believing that I was actually in labor, I kept myself busy doing things like folding laundry and organizing things in the nursery. I couldn’t sit still; I had to keep moving. Eventually, I began to realize that this might be the day we would finally meet our daughter, and I called my doctor, and prepared to go to the hospital.

I’ll spare you the details from there, but the point is that in the last two weeks, at first, I wasn’t sure if I should pay attention to the birth pangs I was feeling as General Conference began to unfold. But when I found myself unable to sit still, moving around with nervous excitement, as the votes became more and more significant, as vote after vote affirmed what I had been praying for, I saw a theme emerging: breaking down barriers for the sake of love. While the 2019 General Conference built up walls, this one tore them down. I began to realize that something new was coming for the UMC.

Let me be clear: General Conference was not perfect. There were missteps and challenges because it was a gathering of imperfect humans. And I lament that too much harm has been done for too long to our LGBTQ+ siblings, harm we will have to work to reconcile.

And I want to affirm that it was a gathering of people seeking to be connected – to God, to one another – and to share love with one another and the world. It was beautiful to witness through the livestream; I can only imagine what it was like to be in the room where it happened. I am full of hope for the UMC!

Narrowing the focus to something that impacts me specifically, one piece of legislation that passed grants deacons sacramental authority, where contextually appropriate. Deacons are ordained to Word, Service, Compassion and Justice. We are called to serve as bridges, as connectors, between the church and the world, extending Christ’s love beyond the church and into the world through our ministries. Sacramental authority for deacons does not change our ministries; it does not make us “like” elders. Sacramental authority for deacons is about extending the means of grace into the world.

A graphic for describing deacons, created by UM Deacons: Sarah Dierker, Sara L Martin, Barbara Dunlap, and Kris Wise

The order of deacons was created at the 1996 General Conference, as a separate ordained Order. Those who worked and advocated for the Order of Deacons had hoped that deacons would have sacramental authority. After all, sacraments in the UMC are administered by ordained persons, and deacons are ordained. However, compromises were made, and the Order of Deacons was created without sacramental authority. As I was 10 years old at the time, there are numerous other deacons who were part of those conversations and can articulate this with greater detail and clarity than I can. Many of them can also articulate the challenges in their ministries due to the lack of sacramental authority, which is why forms of sacramental authority for deacons have been pursued for decades, as a channel through which deacons can extend the means of grace in their ministries. The 2008 General Conference approved limited sacramental authority for deacons, with permission from the bishop. Until 2012, Deacon were ordained to “Word and Service.” I was commissioned as a deacon to “Word and Service” in 2011 and then ordained under the 2012 Book of Discipline in 2013 to “Word, Service, Compassion and Justice.” The ministry of the deacon is ever-evolving, but our calling and ordination has not changed.

Remember, I said that the theme I saw emerging from General Conference was: breaking down barriers for the sake of love? This is one of those instances. It breaks down the barrier that often prevents deacons from extending the means of grace into the world.

A paten and chalice I received as an ordination gift. Without sacramental authority, it has been merely a decoration. However, after the vote passed at General Conference, I pulled it off the shelf and took this picture because it now has new meaning in my life and ministry.

For those interested in understanding the ministry of a deacon as a whole, here is the paragraph regarding the ministry of a deacon from the Book of Discipline, with the revised language around sacraments. (I have bolded the sentences related to sacramental authority.)

¶ 328 The Ministry of a Deacon – From among the baptized, deacons are called by God to a lifetime of servant leadership, authorized by the Church, and ordained by a bishop. From the earliest days of the church, deacons were called and set apart for the ministry of Love, Justice, and Service and for connecting the church with the most needy, neglected, and marginalized among the children of God. This ministry grows out of the Wesleyan passion for social holiness and ministry among the poor. It is the deacons, in both person and function, whose distinctive ministry is to embody, articulate, and lead the whole people of God in its servant ministry. Deacons fulfill servant ministry in the world and lead the Church in relating the gathered life of Christians to their ministries in the world, interrelating worship in the gathered community with service to God in the world. Deacons give leadership in the Church’s life: in teaching and proclaiming the Word; in contributing to worship, in assisting the elders in administering the sacraments of baptism and Holy Communion, or in presiding at the celebration of the sacraments when contextually appropriate ; in forming and nurturing disciples; in conducting marriages and burying the dead; in embodying the church’s mission to the world; and in leading congregations in interpreting the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world. For the sake of extending the mission and ministry of the church and offering the means of grace to the world, the deacon is authorized to preside at the celebration of the sacraments. Presiding at the celebration of the sacraments involves taking responsibility to lead the gathered community in celebrating baptism and Holy Communion. As members of the Order of Deacons, all deacons are in covenant with all other deacons in the annual conference and shall participate in the life of their order.

The question I have gotten over and over again in the last few days is: what does this mean? I can only tell you how I understand it, and what it means for my particular context of ministry.

My understanding of this change is that deacons do not have the same sacramental authority as elders. Elders are still responsible for ordering the sacramental life of the church; deacons still assist, and preside when it makes sense, aka “contextually appropriate.” For me, the significance of this is that the responsibility of discernment is moved from the bishop to the individual deacon. This is HUGE! For deacons serving in contexts without elders, it enables them to administer the sacraments according to their own discernment. It is still significant in contexts where there are elders, as even within the ministry of a local church, occasions arise when a deacon will need to preside. The removal of the requirement to ask the bishop for permission is not simply a matter of convenience; it honors our ordination by empowering us to make decisions surrounding our ministries.

In my current context, I anticipate that I will preside over sacraments on occasion, in particular, in scenarios beyond the walls of the church where the focus is on extending the ministry of the church into the world. And at times, it may be contextually appropriate for me to preside within the walls of the church, as well. A primary example is when an elder is unavailable, but it may not necessarily limited to that (however, I anticipate discernment around those situations would always occur in partnership with the elder with whom I serve).

The specifics of what sacramental authority will look like for deacons, and for me specifically, remains to be fully realized. But we have taken steps forward and it feels empowering. It feels hopeful. And it it just one more step that this General Conference made toward breaking down barriers for the sake of love. My heart is full!

blessings worship

A Blessing for Those Who Lead Worship

by Jessica Petersen

After an entire year away from pastoral ministry, I began a new position this summer. Perhaps the most jarring (and simultaneously, joy-filled) aspect of returning to church work was going to church every Sunday morning to lead worship, after worshiping from home on a screen for over a year due to the pandemic. As I plunged back into regular worship leadership, I found myself reflecting on my experience of leading worship and this blessing was born.

For my friends, colleagues, and worship leaders everywhere: the work that you do is important, and it is a blessing to others. May you receive this blessing today…

A Blessing for Those Who Lead Worship

You rise early
week after week,
feeling the weight
of the task before you.

Ready or not,
Sunday has arrived –
with persistence –
and, as always,
grace
is tagging along.

Yours is hard
and holy work.
A calling,
a labor of love.

Though others
may think it effortless,
only you
know what it requires.

Some will complain.
Others will be immeasurably blessed.
Breathe and remember:
neither is about you.

Your work is to
create space…
for encountering God
through the work of the Spirit
imparting the gift of grace.

May you always remember
that you are a Child of God,
a disciple of Christ.
That is your identity.
“Leader” is your role.
Do not confuse the two.

May you be humble
as you lead your community in
remembering,
rejoicing,
thanking,
praying,
seeking,
hoping.

May you be faithful
as you point to
God’s extraordinary work
in this ordinary world.

While you anticipate every detail,
and ponder the expressions in the pew,
may you also encounter God,
welcome the work of the Spirit,
and be transformed by grace.

And on the day when
glitches abound and plans go awry,
find peace,
knowing that
God always works amid imperfection.

That’s why God
has called you
(imperfect, as you are)
to be a leader
in the shared work
of worshiping
and glorifying
God
together.

Amen.