Here are some of my reflections on Transfiguration, Third Space and the invitation to practice interbeing. These were originally shared at Lyndale UCC on March 5, 2023.

I can still remember all the details—downtown Atlanta. The summer of 2004. Walking around town, the backs of my hands were sweating—something I’d never experienced before. It was my first time with The Fellowship of Affirming Ministries—the Pentecostal, African American, LGBTQ movement- and I was transfixed. In particular, I can still close my eyes and see the moment when a young man with full-blown AIDS walked into the ballroom and Bishop Flunder stopped everything else we were doing. She had been told that he was very, very sick and had boarded a bus in St. Louis the day before and taken it overnight to be with us because he was gay, had been rejected by his family and he knew he needed a healing. When he was invited into the middle of the gathered church and we were invited to lay on hands and pray, I felt a power of the Holy Spirit like I’ve never felt in my entire life. Amidst tears and shouts, we prayed him back into love and community. I don’t know if we invited any kind of a cure. But we, together, healed him.
 
I can still remember all the details—inside the sanctuary of Christ Lutheran Church on Capitol Hill. It was a Wednesday night in early May of 2013. It was raining outside, but not too hard. It was warm inside as over 800 people packed in for the joyous, multifaith service the night before the Minnesota House was to vote on the Marriage Equality legislation that was before them. Rabbi Latz and members of Shir Tikvah held a chuppah and talked about the sacred blessings he had bestowed upon so many couples underneath its cloth. Pagan leader, Robin Mavis cast a circle which sought to protect us all from that which wished harm and welcomed all in who sought to celebrate love. And the entire congregation sang, from floor to rafters, “And God will rejoice when we are creators of justice and joy, compassion and peace. Yes, God will rejoice when we are creators of justice…. justice and joy.” And then all 800 of us walked in the rain across the street to leave paper hearts with our messages of love on the steps to the Rotunda so that legislators who would vote the next day might enter the Capitol along a path of open hearts.
 
I imagine that Peter and James and John could remember every detail of that time on the mountaintop, too. I imagine that the experience of a kind of power and connection they had never known before was something that lived on in their cells as a palpable memory. The dazzling light that I imagine they could close their eyes and see for years to come. The sight of Moses, the listener to burning bushes, and Elijah, the discerner of still, small voices. I imagine Peter and James and John would look at mountaintops and bushes differently from that day on. And I imagine that the connection with the ancestors and the foretelling of all that had come to pass were experiences that shaped them since that moment.
 
***
Indigenous and African American activists talk about First, Second and Third Space. First space is the conditions of oppression and violence that mark much of daily life. Second space is the resistance, the knowing that something isn’t right, the refusal to settle for First Space. And Third Space are those experiences and times when, if only for a moment, or a day, or a collection of days, an experience of liberation, of healing, of wholeness of deepest connection that is free of oppression, happens.
 
It is those moments of Third Space that fortify and encourage our living in Second Space in order to resist First Space.
 
The story of the Transfiguration is a story of Third Space. It is a story of Peter and James and John being gifted by Jesus with a vision of the future that will be but also already is. And it is not coincidence that Jesus allows them this experience of Third Space as a way to fortify them for the journey they must accompany him on through his arrest, trial and execution. He knows they need it to have any chance at holding on to hope amidst their despair.
 
This question of how we hold on to hope in a world that provides us with so much evidence for despair is one that has gripped and guided me most of my life. It is especially close to my heart each year during the Lenten journey.
 
On this second Sunday in Lent, as we consider our Lenten theme of Practicing Interbeing, I am drawn to this reality of First, Second and Third space. We are living amidst a lot of things that could cause us to despair—both personally and collectively. I think about the second year of Russia’s war on Ukraine, of Israel’s attacks on Palestinians, the earthquakes in Turkey and Syria, the assault on trans+ kindred in Florida, Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska and many other places, the assault on truth itself through the censuring of accurate historical truth-telling about our country’s history of racism and violence… there is a lot which could cause despair.
 
And, throughout my life—in Lent and at other times (hot, humid summers and rainy Springs)— I am always drawn into worshiping with kindred souls seeking hope. Collective praying, communal singing, shared eucharist, public acts of healing and love. Sometimes they are experiences whose every detail I remember that literally transport me toward that promised future that is already here. But sometimes they strike me as regular or even mundane or boring. But the practice of setting aside time and gathering together so that small and large Transfigurations might happen is what I feel called to this second Sunday of Lent.
 
There is another thing about the Transfiguration and its Third Space that seems important to name here as we ponder what “Practicing Interbeing” might mean for us. Interbeing is marked by a deep sense of interdependence: I am because you are. Interbeing is the reality that power is mutual; and reciprocity is how we relate: to our kindred humans and to all of creation, including our animal and plant kindred. Interbeing is about realizing that our very bodies are made up of the same matter that make up the stars and the planets and the company of all creation. Interbeing reminds us that we are not separate or individuated parts, instead, we are deeply connected.
 
The trees breathe in our carbon dioxide and breathe out oxygen which we breathe in. Then, we breathe out carbon dioxide which the trees breathe in. We live in a relationship of reciprocity with the trees. These relationships of reciprocity are repeated throughout all of creation. That which is harmful to one is medicine to the other. And it is only together that we are able to live. Together, we can metabolize and transform that which is harmful into that which is healing.
 
But Jesus knew he had to bring Peter and James and John to the mountaintop because far too much of his world was in First and Second space. Living under Roman Empire, there wasn’t a lot of mutuality and shared power. Instead, power-over and violence were the rule of the day. Executions of those who resisted Rome’s rule were common. Crucifixion was the punishment of those who were seen as a threat to Roman Empire power. And often, the victims of Rome’s violent crack-downs were left hanging on the cross along the road in order to scare others into obedience.
 
But the Jesus way is the way of interbeing. Jesus was trying to help Peter and James and John, and all of us, see that his life and ministry is about second and third space. Just like Moses resisted the power of Pharoah, just like Elijah called forth prophetic justice, Jesus’ ministry is one of reciprocity, of deep connection, of sharing and justice and, most importantly, of love.
 
And in the Transfiguration, Jesus reminds us that Third space and mountain top time, are critically important for all of us. We have to have places and spaces where we experience the deepest connection and our belonging to one another and all of creation.
 
Naomi Shihab Nye describes one such moment of interbeing & Third Space in her poem Gate A-4
 
“Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: "If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately."
Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing.
"Help," said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."
I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is
picking you up? Let's call him."
We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would
stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to
her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just
for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I
thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know
and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,
answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool
cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and
nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.
And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two
little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they
were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend--
by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,
some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-
tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This
is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that
gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about
any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.
This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

I am very excited to share that Sacred Reckonings: White Settler-Colonizer Churches Doing the Work of Reparations is complete! Sacred Reckonings was written and compiled through a grant from the Louisville Institute by Jessica Intermill, Esq and me. It is rooted in deep listening and relationship with Black and Indigenous elders, and with BIPOC and white settler-colonizer colleagues and friends. 

It is designed for Christian congregations that are predominantly white settler-colonizer to engage the sacred work of reparations through a lens of Liberation for All and Open Heartedness. And, we hope its primary feel and invitation is one of deep work that leads to healing and joy. The central work of Sacred Reckonings is the Reparatory Eco Map which leads congregations through the crucial work of Truth Telling, Relationships of Solidarity and Followership, Political Solidarity, Spiritual Practices, and Wealth Surrender.

We are still building out the trainings and support, but here is the curriculum. Please let us know if you are interested in using it in your congregation. 

I had the amazing opportunity to be present at the White House for the signing of the Respect for Marriage Act on December 13, 2022. I share a few reflections in this blog post for the national United Church of Christ website. You can find it here and below.

​As I waited for my Lyft driver to arrive to take me to the White House (there’s a phrase I didn’t know I’d ever write), I called my friend Rev. Harry Knox. When he answered, I immediately got teary.
 
It was nineteen years ago when Harry was working at Freedom to Marry that he called me and asked if I, as Interim National Coordinator of the UCC Coalition for LGBT Concerns (The Coalition), would consider applying for a grant to work on marriage. I went on to be the Faith Work Director at the National LGBTQ Task Force and he the Religion and Faith Director at HRC. Our two organizations didn’t always get along, but he and I were true friends. He often quotes the wisdom that “you can get a lot done together if you don’t worry about who gets the credit.” And, in that spirit, he and I were privileged to work with hundreds of pro-LGBTQ spiritual and religious leaders on justice for LGBTQ communities. Harry wasn’t able to be at the White House for the signing of the Respect for Marriage Act, but I carried him with me.
 
I carried a lot of other folx, too. Like Rev. Jan Griesinger. Jan died last week. She was the first person I ever came out to. Jan and Sam Lolliger were long-time Co-National Coordinators for The Coalition. When I became the interim National Coordinator, years after I’d come out to her, she was very kind and loving (her gruff exterior belied her very tender heart) and offered me sage advice on strategy.
 
These were the things on my heart and mind as I stood on the South Lawn of the White House, amidst a crowd of beautiful drag queens and Marines, of priests and politicians and parents, of children and interns, of ambassadors and press secretaries: it was generous collective action and genuine friendships; it was kindness and badass strategy; it was love, and love, and love that brought us to this day.
 
It seems somehow fitting that the Respect for Marriage Act was signed into law during Advent with its themes of waiting, incarnate/Incarnate love, and preparation. Because there’s been a lot of faithful waiting. And there’s been a lot of strategic preparation. And there’s been a lot of incarnate love and Love: just in the people with whom I stood and talked. Incarnate love in Ambassador Michael Guest who was the second out gay ambassador; Karine Jean Pierre, the first Black person and the first openly LGBTQ person to be White House press secretary; Rev. Naomi Washington-Leapheart, Director for Faith-Based and Interfaith Affairs for the city of Philadelphia; Rev. Neil Thomas, Senior Pastor at Cathedral of Hope UCC; Jon Hoadley, former Michigan State Representative; Fred Davie, Senior Strategic Advisor to the President at Union Theological Seminary; Sunu Chandy, Legal Director at the National Women’s Law Center.
 
The Respect for Marriage Act is not liberation. There is much work to be done. And there is, yet, much to be celebrated. Love is love is love. And for its incarnation, we return thanks to God!

Rev. Dr. Rebecca Voelkel and Karine Jean-Pierre, White House Press Secretary

I want to begin by saying again how grateful I am for the time of sabbatical that Lyndale granted me. It will take me many more sermons and writing to explore all that I’ve learned this summer, particularly as I’ve worked on the Louisville Institute grant on reparations. But know I return thanks to God for Lyndale and all this community is. Thank you.
 
Besides the grant work, my sabbatical also included a month-long trip in which Maggie and Shannon and I spent time in Ireland and Scotland on our ancestral lands, exploring our histories. As I read about the interaction between Jesus and the ten people with leprosy, I was struck by the importance of truth-telling for the process of healing.
 
Truth-telling for the process of healing. What do I mean by that?
 
Maren Tirabassi recently wrote a reader’s theatre piece about the story of Jesus and the ten people with leprosy in which she explores why the nine people didn’t turn back.[1] In her exegesis, many of those whom Jesus healed don’t turn back and thank Jesus because they wanted to bury the past. They wanted to cover up the memory.  They wanted to forget what happened to them.
 
When we were in Scotland in August, the primary task was to inter the ashes of my grammie’s younger sister, Christina MacKenzie Russell. There is a family plot in the Tomnahurich Cemetery in Inverness where my great grandmother, Jessie Johnstone MacKenzie and some of her children are buried and since my Aunt Chris died in 2006, I’ve been holding her ashes until they could make their way home. We were able to bury her there on August 26th.
 
On the 28th, we took a trip north of Inverness, through what is known as Ross and Cromarty. Now, I’ve never spent time in Ross and Cromarty, but I’ve certainly known about it and I’ve talked about it with my cousin’s wife, whose name is Jan Cromartie-Voelkel. So when we were in Scotland and in Ross and Cromarty, I texted Jan to let her know. Just after I texted her, our tour stopped at Dunrobin Castle, ancestral home of the Earl of Sutherland. As we pulled up, our driver suggested that this was Scotland’s answer to Disney. And he wasn’t kidding. The towers and the estate looked as if they could have been the model for the Disney logo. The wealth and opulence were overwhelming, so much so that all three of us took the short cut to the exit.
 
As the bus pulled away from Dunrobin, our tour guide then shared with us that it was the Earl of Sutherland who, in 1831, had decided that the 1500 families who lived in Ross and Cromarty weren’t making him enough money and that he wanted to have sheep instead. He decided to clear the families off the land. Many of them, he tricked into going to a port near Dunrobin where he had several ships onto which he loaded them and sent them off to North Carolina.
 
Our tour then stopped at the statue whose picture is on the cover of your bulletin which was put up by the Highland Clearances Commission. In it, one of the 1500 families that was cleared off the land is pictured, starving and desperate as they are forced out of their country.
 
Right after I took that picture and got back on the bus, a text came from my cousin, Jan Cromartie-Voelkel. Oh, yes, she said. The white family that owned her ancestors in North Carolina were Cromarties but when she wrote them to ask about her people who they had enslaved, they didn’t write her back.
 
When I read Jan’s text to Maggie and Shannon, we could hardly take it all in. How could people who experienced the brutality of being dehumanized, cleared off their ancestral land in order to be replaced by livestock, starved and lied to, shipped to another country all in the name of greed, turn around and own other human beings?
 
Did the process of burying the past happen right away? Did those families from Ross and Cromarty change the spelling and pronunciation of their name right away? Did they start lying about their past when they got off the boat, or did it take a while?
 
A couple of weeks ago, Lyn Pegg, Nancie Hamlett, Jonathan Stegall, Craig Simenson, Pam Meyerhoff and I attended a book reading at First Nations Kitchen with Elaine Enns and Ched Myers of their book, Healing Haunted Histories: A Settler Discipleship of Decolonization. It was a powerful evening and there were many things that moved me.
 
In particular, they argue that the Doctrine of Discovery creates and demands of white people a state of agnosia (similar root of the word agnostic… like I don’t know). By agnosia, they mean socialized ignorance, a state of denying and dissociating. In white settler culture, we don't know and we don't want to know. But when we live in a state of buried truth, of socialized ignorance, we are dissociated and haunted by the ghosts of that history....everywhere we walk, there are stories that the land holds...of violence that we can't ignore.
 
When the tenth person who’s been healed of leprosy turns back and thanks Jesus, the act of turning back is rooted in acknowledging his history. He owns the truth about who he is and where he comes from. While all the others are healed in body, he is able to be healed in heart and soul as well as body because he, first, acknowledges the truth of all that’s happened to him. And in owning the truth, he is released into gratitude.
 
One of the people I interviewed over my sabbatical was Macky Alston, a documentary filmmaker who’s just finishing a film on reparations that focuses on his mother’s family who were enslavers in Georgia. I asked him a lot about what drew him into making this film and about working on reparations in general. And one of the first stories he told me was about when he came out to his parents after they had moved from Georgia to New Jersey. Their reaction was a lukewarm, well that’s OK, but you must never tell your grandparents because it will kill them.
 
Macky paused and said, “they literally were saying that the truth would annihilate my grandparents. And I think that’s the fear in all this reparation work, too. That the truth about our pasts will annihilate us.”
 
But, he went on to say. “At some point, I chose to ignore my parents fears and I went to Georgia and came to my mamaw and she was not only unfazed but celebrated me. And I learned that, in fact, the truth could, indeed, set you free.”
 
My friends, we live in a world where buried truths haunt us- individually and collectively. Our pains and traumas fester when they are covered up. And we can lash out and perpetrate the very trauma that was visited on us. As Bishop Yvette Flunder often says, “hurt people hurt people. And healing people help heal people.”
 
When Jesus greets the tenth person who tells the truth about his past and is released to gratitude, he says, go… your faith has healed you. What healings do we need? What truths are we invited to name so that we might be released into gratitude and healing? What faithfulness are we being called to?
 
Today we will partake at the communion table, like we do every month. And each time we consecrate the bread and the cup, we repeat the words from scripture, Do This in Remembrance of Me. Truth-speaking and memory are sacred and holy things. They are the first step toward healing and liberation.
 
Amen.


[1] https://giftsinopenhands.wordpress.com/2022/10/03/where-are-they-readers-theatre-sermon-or-other-occasion-the-ten-lepers-luke-17-11-19/?fbclid=IwAR07WZTlqbihFMm-CLDI9xD4fYOrOuw3gyvCnhFrahJB3l90srCpiRZnl-k

This morning, Governor Tim Walz signed an Executive Order doing all in his power to block the torturous practice of "conversion therapy" in the State of Minnesota. It isn't enough, and we all affirmed that. But it is a step in the right direction. I was one of those on stand-by to speak. I didn't get to speak these words, but here is what I have been praying about in this moment:

Good morning, my name is Rev. Dr. Rebecca Voelkel and I am the justice pastor and Director of the Center for Sustainable Justice at Lyndale United Church of Christ.
 
I stand before you today as a Christian pastor. I have to tell you, being a pastor is one of my greatest joys in life. Because of my role, I have been invited into some of the most sacred spaces: I’ve seen in the delivery room as babies were being born, I’ve been in hospice rooms as folx have taken their last breath and crossed over the River Jordan, I’ve sung and prayed and preached and communed in some of the most powerful worship services, I’ve marched and been arrested witnessing for the gospel of love and justice. Being a pastor is one of the greatest joys of my life.
 
But my identity as a pastor is also a source of deep sorrow, shame and anger when I consider the violence done in the name of Jesus. My identity as a Christian pastor causes me to weep and rage when I consider the ways in which bad theology has been used to abuse. And there are far too many examples of bad Christian theology. In the last two months, we’ve heard of story after story of indigenous children’s bodies being discovered at so-called boarding schools. The latest one just this week on an island in Western Canada run by the Catholic Church. Bad theology distorts a gospel of love and liberation into a tool of violence, torture and death.
 
And when that happens, the only faithful thing any of us can do, but certainly the only faithful thing a Christian pastor can do is confess, repent and work toward reparation.
 
This morning, I am greatly honored to be standing with Gov. Walz and Lt Gov Flanigan as they ban so called reparative therapy. This practice is not any kind of therapy and is, instead, a technique of torture. It is a clear example of twisted, perverted theology. Conversion therapy is a tool for imbuing self-loathing. It creates life-long wounds that far too often lead to suicide.
 
I stand before you as a Christian pastor to confess that far too many Christians have used this torture technique against the LGBTQ community. I stand before you to call all of my Christian kindred to repent of this blasphemous practice. And I stand before you today in deep gratitude for Gov Walz and Lt Gov Flanigan and this Executive Order. May it be one step in the work of healing and repair for all Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer beloveds.

This year, the practice of Holy Week amidst the opening arguments and the beginning of witness testimony in the murder trial of Derek Chauvin has been particularly poignant. And Easter morning is, too. Here are some of my reflections on the journey we are on: settler, white and Black, indigenous and people of color...

The trauma had happened quickly. There wasn’t a lot of time between the shock of his arrest, the frantic attempts to get Pilate to release him and the horror of watching him die. And she had been there for all of it. She had borne witness and tried to offer something to him with her presence.
 
She was still in shock and deep in grief on the morning in the garden. She was in so much grief that she mistook him for the gardener. She can be forgiven for her clouded thinking because it had only been three days since his execution at the hands of the Roman Empire.
 
But when he called her name, her attention shifted, she was awakened from her stupor and she recognized her beloved, her teacher… “Mary”…. “Rabbouni.”

​It is one of the most moving passages in scripture, for me. In the shortest of exchanges, the calling of her name immediately gathers her in relationship, in love, in the impossible reality that from such horror and pain and death has sprung new life.
 
…
 
For years, the factory had polluted the soil and the waters of the surrounding community and then it closed. It sat empty for over a decade until it was torn down and the land sat barren. A group of local community activists sitting in the midst of a food desert decided they would try to remediate the soil. It was one of those amazing projects: you had the Black elders, some of whom had worked at the plant, you had the young Black and brown activists, you had the Black, brown and white geeks who studied microorganisms, plants and mushrooms and the white Canadian woman who spent her life’s energy writing about Earth Repair.
 
They first met together in a place that looked deceptively simple: grasses growing but not much else. And then the Canadian began to describe what lay in the soil, the chemicals and toxins that had woven themselves together to poison the earth. But she said, this death is not the final word. We can ally ourselves with the organisms, plants and fungi. For every contaminate, there is a microorganism for which it is food. The contamination took decades and the repair will, too. But we can heal this land if we align ourselves with the creatures who can bring life out of this death.
 
She said, we need to know the truth about which toxins did the contaminating. We need to know so we know exactly the names of which plants and which mushrooms and which bacteria will be our teachers and healers.
 
That was ten years ago and the work is far from done. But the earth is being repaired in that small plot of land and the death of environmental degradation is slowly giving itself over to the life of human and mushroom, plant and microorganism working together.
 
…
 
Almost three years ago I made a trip to the Pacific Northwest, to the far west coast of the Olympic peninsula, a place that resonates in my soul-body the way few things do. It was right after one of my dearest mentors had died. And I was grieving deeply. As I disembarked the plane and got into my car and then drove onto the ferry to cross the Puget Sound… as I drove around the top of the Olympic National Park, the bottom of the Makah reservation and finally approached the coast, I felt my fascia start to loosen and my heart begin to soften. I felt my breathing gradually slowing and my mind begin to settle. And all of it caused the tears of grief and loss to come closer to the surface.
 
Finally, as I got out of my car at the trail head that led through the forest to the beach, I inhaled like I was home and started onto the path. For the first section of the trail, I was looking up at the trees, the ones that always remind me of cathedral pillars standing over a hundred feet tall. I had that same sense of sacredness and worship as I paused and looked through the intricately woven canopy with the sunlight speckling through. And then, for some reason, my eyes were brought to the ground. Just ahead of me and to my left, lying about 75 feet long was the greatly decayed trunk of one of massive trees that had fallen several years earlier… in the span between when it fell and now, millions of insects had feasted, slowly softening its hard wood into sawdust and soil. And there, along its massive span whose outline was less-visible because of its softness, rose dozens and dozens and dozens of saplings. What I was looking, what had brought my attention from the heavens to the earth, what had called my name, was what is known as a nurse log.
 
The tears which had been close to the surface, came spilling out. That one grandmother who had stood for centuries probably had been transformed from death into life for literally thousands of other creatures and close to one hundred other trees. Amidst my grief, she had grabbed my attention and seemed to call out my name, “Rebecca.” And I recognized her as teacher.
 
And she said to me, remember, life springs from death.
 
This Lent we have been journeying together and considering what makes for reparation? What truths do we need to tell about our individual and collective histories? What relationships do we need to form and nurture? What spiritual practices do we need to cultivate and practice? And how do we re-distribute resources so that all may have life and life abundant?
 
And how do we do all of this in deeply embodied ways that help us ground in our created selves (the vertical line, the height and the depth), in community with others and all of creation (the horizontalness, the width), with all who have come before (all that is behind us and literally has our back) and the possibility of what will come (all that lies in front of us)?
 
I have been deeply moved by all we have shared together on this Lenten journey and I am bringing it to this Easter moment: the truth-telling about the Doctrine of Discovery; the relationships with MIRAC and Reclaim the Block and Honor the Earth; the spiritual practices which have been a particular kind of intimacy as we’ve practiced over Zoom; and the dreaming of how we, as individuals and as the Lyndale community might pay reparations: to our indigenous and Black kindred.
 
As I’ve sat with these last few weeks in my heart, there are several things that spring up for me as lessons.
 
The first is that resurrection and reparation are not the same thing, but they are deeply related to each other. Reparation and resurrection are both responses to deep brokenness, and, in particular, brokenness that springs from oppression. Both focus on healing from betrayal and destruction and both are rooted in relationship.
 
Rev. Dr. Serene Jones was my systematic theology professor in seminary and her class was one of my favorites. One of the most important things she taught us came when we got to crucifixion and resurrection. As she lectured, her voice became soft and commanding in a way that told us she was very serious. She said, if you don’t remember anything else from this class, remember this: you must never write or preach about crucifixion without writing and preaching about resurrection. And you must never write or preach about resurrection without writing and preaching about crucifixion.
 
Resurrection is God’s response to the crucifixions in our world. No matter how dead something appears, no matter how powerful the violence and evil that killed it, God is a God who makes a way out of no way. God finds a way to bring life out of the deepest death. Reparation is one concrete way we can participate with God in resurrection. Reparation is one way we can look into relationships, into toxicity, into degradation and ally ourselves with the process of repairing the world. But we can’t participate in resurrection and reparation if we pretend that crucifixion and violence haven’t happened. Resurrection and reparation are rooted in bearing witness to the crucifixions of our world and vowing to resist their power.
 
The second lesson I’ve been sitting with this Holy Week is that, our Biblical story aside, most resurrections and most reparation take a long time. So much so that it might be better to say that we are called to practice resurrection and practice reparation for the long haul… and, even then, resurrection and reparation is, more often than not, generational work. It’s work that is started by grand parents and passed like an heirloom, onto children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
 
Practicing resurrection and reparation is long haul work because the power of crucifixion… of colonization, of white supremacy, of extractive capitalism…. The power of crucifixion is real. Trauma and pain, suffering and sorrow, degradation and toxicity can be pernicious, persistent and long lasting. And they can be handed down from generation to generation like a poisoned inheritance. Serene Jones was right. We must tell the truth about this reality.
 
But the fact that practicing resurrection and reparation is generational work doesn’t make it any less sacred or powerful. Indeed, being part of a long line of healing is a gift unlike any other.
 
…
 
On Monday morning as the sun was rising, several of us from Lyndale joined with about fifty or a hundred other kindred at George Floyd Square to pray before the opening arguments began in the trial of Derek Chauvin. We gathered at the Say Their Names memorial which is an open field filled with white headstones with the names of hundreds who have been killed by police. And we proceeded to walk first to the north gate of George Floyd Square and then to the South Gate, then to the East Gate and the West Gate and finally to the center of the Square, just feet from where George was murdered. The pain is still palpable in the place. The crucifixion that happened there, the modern-day lynching that so many witnessed, still haunts and traumatizes. And as we walked, we renounced the evil that still seeks to kill.
 
But two things resonated in my soul: the first was when we got to the West Gate, the leaders said, “we like to think of the West Gate as the Mutual Aid gate. This is where whoever needs to give can come and give and whoever needs to receive can come and receive. This is where we learn to heal and take care of ourselves with food, water, medical care, a listening ear or a prayer.”
 
The second piece that resonated with my soul was that when we got to the center of the square, where there is a beautiful sculpture of a fist raised high, the leader pointed out that all around the sculpture, they had laid dirt and mulch several inches deep on top of the pavement. She said, we have dirt here because we need to plant and grow, we need the soil to heal us, too.
 
My friends, the crucifixions in our lives are real. There is no doubt. As followers of Jesus, we are called to resist such violence and death whenever we can and to bear witness and act in solidarity, for we are a people who have traveled through Good Friday.
 
But we are not just a Good Friday people. We are an Easter people. We know that God’s deepest desire for us is not death but life.
 
The resurrected one, the teacher, didn’t just call Mary’s name in a garden centuries ago. The resurrected one, the teacher calls to us today.
 
So, let us awaken from our grief and from our despair and be students of the nurse log and the microorganism, let us ally ourselves with the plants and the mushrooms, let us give when we need to and receive when we need to.
 
And may we live so that our grandchildren’s grandchildren will marvel at the heirloom we’ve passed down to them.
 
Amen.

I have been spending a lot of time with kindred trying to examine what kinds of spiritual practices can mitigate​ against hoarding and support us in the work of reparations: particularly reparations work for settler and white folx. This is a sermon I wrote during Lent at Lyndale UCC. I offer it as one small part of our work to repair the world.

Deep peace of the thawing lakes to us, deep peace of the flowing air to us, deep peace of the warming earth to us, deep peace of the shining sun to us, deep peace of the One of Peace to us, whose spirit and guidance we seek- in this moment and always. Amen.
 
Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul.

I was twenty-eight and had recently graduated from seminary. She was in her late eighties. I was working as a chaplain at the VA hospital in Seattle and I was surprised when I saw her on my list of patients to visit that day because the vast majority of folx that I saw were men. I didn’t know anything about her, except that she’d served as a nurse during World War II.  

​Continue reading here.

​Prayer Circle: No to Line 3
December 17, 2020
Rev. Dr. Rebecca Voelkel
 
Over five hundred years ago, my European Christian ancestors embarked on a well-thought, well-strategized plan to dominate the world. It started with the invasion and subjugation of African Muslim’s and pagans and became the Atlantic slave trade. And it continued with Columbus’s campaign of terror in the Americas. This well-thought, well-strategized plan to dominate the world was and is known as the Doctrine of Discovery and there is a bold and direct line between the actions of those terrorists and their blasphemous colonizing in that era to pipelines and extractive economies in 2020. The Doctrine of Discovery is rooted in Empire Christianity and it was blasphemous then and it is blasphemous now. It wreaked untold suffering then and it threatens the very existence of our planet in this moment.
 
It is as an act of repentance and reparation that I stand before you and with you as a white Christian pastor today, seeking to stop Line 3, particularly in this season. Dec 17, 2020 stands in between the third and fourth Sundays in the Christian season of Advent which is a time of waiting and preparation for love and justice to be born in our world. It is also a time when we Christians believe we are invited to find ways to embody the same kind of solidarity with love and justice that God demonstrates in the birth of Jesus.
 
And, so, it seems particularly appropriate to be here with you: in repentance and solidarity.
 
But one of the things about repentance and solidarity is that they are not one-time things. We must practice them again and again if we are to experience healing. And that is certainly true about our work around Line 3. The other thing is that in the face of well-thought, well-strategized doctrines of discovery and destruction, we must pray and organize in well-thought and well-strategized ways, too.
 
For the past almost three years, I’ve gathered with many of you in prayer and ceremony to say no to this pipeline. Following the leadership of indigenous kindred, we’ve protested, we’ve attended committee hearings, we’ve participated in comment periods, we’ve sung and meditated and lamented and organized. We’ve taken action through the Poor People’s Campaign and the Water is Life Ceremony in the Governor’s Receiving Room. We’ve participated in coalitions of all kinds.
 
And now we are here because we know the danger, the destruction and the death that this pipeline represents: for our planet, for the waters that support life and for each of us and all of us.
 
But we are also here because our action isn’t just no-saying, it isn’t just protest and strategic resistance. We are here because we know that water is sacred, that all of creation is bound together in a blessing and is kin to one another. And so I stand here in deepest gratitude for being bound to and with you and these waters and these lands and these creatures. And I return thanks to the Sacred whom I call God for all who are saying no to this pipeline and yes to life.
 
 

Reflections for Earth Day 2020
MNIPL, Minnesota Multifaith Network, Kaleo Center
Rev. Dr. Rebecca Voelkel
 
One of the traditions that has deeply shaped by heart, mind, body and spirit is that of queer theology. And one of the practices within queer theology is to find ways in which spiritual texts can speak and embody a word for the present moment. And, so, as we grapple with COVID-19 and the paradox of grief, colonization and fear on the one hand and on the other, the extraordinary possibility-for-another-world-beyond-this, I share with you a re-imagining of the prologue to the gospel of John. I offer it as a prayer of blessing. Will you pray with me?
 
In the beginning were Desire and Longing:
   Desire for ecstasy and connection, longing for the deepest of communions.
 
And Desire and Longing were with God.
       And Desire and Longing were God.
           Desire and Longing were with God in the beginning.
 
In fact, they were the animators, the prodders, the relentless whispers
       which propelled the explosion of creativity:
            stars and planets and the whole company of creation. These all came into being out
                 of that Desire and Longing and not one thing would have been without
                      the promise of ecstasy, connection and communion.
 
And then, as now, Desire and Longing were threatening to the forces of destruction,
     dis-connection, dis-memberment
         and death.
 
But then, as now, these did not prevail and what came into being because of and through
       Desire and Longing
           were
               Life, and Life abundant.[1]
 
 
May desire and longing—for life and life abundant, find us, claim us, impassion us and inspire us-- this day and every day. Amen.
 


[1] Rebecca Voelkel, “Promiscuous Incarnation” in Unsettling the Word: Biblical Experiments in Decolonization, ed. Steve Heinrichs (Altona, Manitoba, Canada: Mennonite Church Canada, 2018), 216.