Mennos dancing with the stars

I can’t tell if Menno Simons (pictured below) is excited about Monday’s solar eclipse or disappointed in our sketch of him. Or maybe he just doesn’t like our reworking of the hymn “Will you let me be your servant.” Blame my friends, Menno, not me.*

menno eclipse II copy

Will you let me be

*Jesse Graber (drawing); Joanna Harader and Maggie Goble (hymn text); Rosi Penner Kaufman (musical score assistance)


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Comforted by Mennonites

Rainbow quilters were back on Monday! I could hear their wonderful chatter and the purring of their sowing* machines and it filled me with hope that somewhere in the world, someone would be comforted by their compassion.
According to the Mennonite Central Committee website, last year over 51,000 comforters or blankets made by Mennonites were shipped to Jordan, Ethiopia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea), Ukraine, Serbia, Iraq, Canada, the U.S. and more.
On a more lighthearted note, this is my favorite story about Mennonites seeking to comfort others. I believe this particular story comes from Barbara Chappell via Ben Chappell. (Like the gospels, I believe several versions of this story are floating around.)
A social work professor who travels to Darfur, Sudan, shared stories at a recent church gathering. In the midst of recounting the horrors of the genocide there, he related this amusing story.
Mennonite Central Committee has been sending blankets and comforters to Darfur where they are greatly appreciated.  There is no Arabic word for “comforter,” so the people just called them “Mennonites.” Until he figured this out, the traveler was totally perplexed to hear these very appreciative people talking about how they always like to have a Mennonite on top of them to keep them warm at night, and how they hang the Mennonite on the wall in the morning because, in the morning Mennonites look so nice hanging from a hook!
*Apparently I’m of the Mennonite generation that does not know how to sew. At least I sure don’t know how to spell it.
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In the valley of weeping

Psalm 84 has been on my mind this week, especially this phrase:

As they go through the valley of Baca…

Baca is often translated as “the valley of weeping,” a place of adversity, dry, devoid of water and nourishment. Some point to an actual valley, Rephaim, that fits this description and that is close to Jerusalem.

Many of us have walked through our own valleys of weeping and adversity, whether literal or figurative. Mark Wiebe and Anne Brady Bloos certainly know this valley as they, together with their youngest son, Noah, reel from the sudden and shocking death of their 25 year old son, Quinn. You can read the obituary here:  Quinn David Brady

Last week I met with the Wiebe family in their home. The family asked me to help them center their pain and shock, hopefully in a spirit of love. As I sat with them in the valley of weeping, these are some of the words I shared. I still hope and pray that that they will find their way within this valley toward the springs of life, but now is a time for sitting with them in the valley. Now is the time for acknowledging the pain and sitting in the void.


July 21, 2017

Dear Quinn’s beloved family and friends,

I brought some symbols from Rainbow. The large candle graces the front of the sanctuary every Sunday at Rainbow. Some people call it the Light of Love, some call it the Centering Light, some call it the God Light. We relate to and name light and the divine in different ways, and that is beautiful.

The little candles in the sand stand like little figures to me. They make me think of all the people surrounding you right now from near and far, holding you in the Light of Love.

What many people at Rainbow don’t know is that sometimes the wick of the large candle gets buried from all the wax build up, and sometimes during the middle of the service, the light goes out. When this happens, my thoughts usually drift to the sad, but true reality that sometimes life has a way of snuffing out potential. Life is blown out by disease, injury, sometimes unknown causes. When this happens, we are left struggling to relight the potential, to relight our lives in the face of loss, and to surrender to mystery.

To you who knew and loved Quinn the most, to you who Quinn knew and loved the most, your grief and pain is raw. This is not a time to say clichés or look for resolution or even answers. Rather, it is a time to hurt together. Tears are welcome and I would say they are holy, for they flow from love.

John O Donahue, the great poet writes this: “To acknowledge and cross a new threshold is always a challenge, especially when thresholds open suddenly in front of us, for which we had no preparation. This could be illness, suffering, or loss. Because we are so engaged with the world, we usually forget how fragile life can be and how vulnerable we always are. It takes only a couple of seconds for life to change irreversibly. Suddenly we stand on completely strange and shaky ground…..”

This is the shaky ground you stand on. And the challenge is to let grief be as it is–wild, raw, and untamed. And as best we can, be present to it and one another. For in honoring grief and sorrow, we honor the love that it stems from.

I was searching for poetry to share with you. Quinn, after all, loved poetry.


A poem by Quinn David Brady written in his early homeschool years.

So often poets, especially of the religious variety, want to move quickly toward the transforming power of grief and sorrow, toward a resolution. But today isn’t a day for seeking full resolution.

The one poem I did want to share with you is called A Grief Ago, by Michael Shepherd. I shared it with a friend and she wrote this in response: “I have to admit that I am kind of pissed at grief right now.  Yes, I have experienced its beauty, its transformational energy, its paralyzing heaviness and protection, but I so badly want to lock it up in a cupboard for a minute.  I want to gather up everyone else’s grief and plant it somewhere, again if only for a minute.  Bearing witness to so much pain, so much grief… There really is no hiding from it, no burial for it, no putting it up somewhere- this I know to be true, sigh.”


I think Michael Shepherd says something similar in this poem.

A grief ago

There is no grief
which time does not lessen
or soften’ –
so said Cicero, a man so often right;
a Stoic, those for whom
all life presents a lesson
to be learned from,
and then, to move on from..

But I wonder about all this:
is grief ever lessened or softened?
Is it not, perhaps, overlaid
in our so various ways?

For some, grief framed and falsified
to ease that grief;

For some, like hyacinths and crocus bulbs,
left in a dark cupboard in the autumn of our grief
to respond to time, and
become at last

gently, gently, the covers pulled
over the loving bed,
the true, the pure, the lovely painful grief,
the memory deep cherished,
gently, gently, folded
into the cupboards of the heart

there to be known, without the door disturbed
until the time – ‘a grief ago’ as Dylan wrote
the cupboard opened only for love’s sake
without grief…:
those carefully folded memories
brought out and loved
and lived a while…

not grief, not grief…but
the pure memory of grief

and behold,


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Life tips



If you were asked on the spot to give a room full of 100 K-8th graders a life tip, what would it be? And what would it be if you had to say it in one sentence, using fewer than 10 words? This is exactly what community leaders are asked to do every morning during Rainbow Summer School Program.

For example, on the morning of July 12 here was Mayor Mark Holland’s life tip (it’s hard for Mayors to keep it to one sentence): “Everyone has a special calling, and I believe that calling is somewhere between what you are good at and what you enjoy. So keep figuring out what you are good at AND what you enjoy!”


Here are a few more life tips heard at Rainbow Summer Program. You might notice that someone named Pastor Ruth couldn’t keep her life tip to 10 words either.



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Mennonite Church USA Pep Talk

Next week, July 4-8, Mennonites from across the US will gather in Orlando, Florida for the Mennonite Church USA biennial convention. I have spent my whole life going to these conventions so it feels weird not to be going this year.

There are many things to celebrate in regards to the wider Mennonite denomination, but as you will see by this email exchange with a friend, knowing how to relate to the wider Mennonite church, including all the denominational policies and procedures, can sometimes be painful. Here is just one example of a very recent denominational decision that has many in the church feeling angry and disappointed: MCUSA Board Suspends Appointment of Gay Member on Committee

The same week that this news broke, I received the following email from a friend/fellow Mennonite pastor. What follows is my response.

hi ruth –
am i remembering right that you are not going to be at orlando?

would you be up for a pep talk/real hope? by that i mean, i’m headed to orlando with a heavy heart, tears come to my eyes at the thought of being there.

if you have time to have a talk about how to even engage the state of the church experience, i’d welcome talking with you, one of my grounding, long term people!


You are correct about me not going to Orlando. As for a pep talk, I just returned from a trip to Alaska with my family, so my heart is still with the mountains, moose, rivers, and bears.

Did you know that of all the tourists who come to Alaska each year, specifically to get a view of Mount Denali, only 30% are successful? This is because the weather is often cloudy and rainy—by often I mean 70% of the time. It must be incredibly disappointing, especially since going to Alaska isn’t cheap! The Harder family was extremely fortunate in that we had three beautiful and sunny days. And Mount Denali doesn’t disappoint in its splendor and size.

IMG_2320 (1).JPG

So what does that have to do with the “state of the church experience”? I want to believe there is still beauty, splendor, mysticism, and majesty to be found and experienced within the confines of the church, yes even MCUSA, but unfortunately there is a whole lot of “cloud cover” blocking our view of the larger horizon that Jesus calls us to. We walk away disappointed and brokenhearted and just plain broke by the church (trips from KS to Florida aren’t cheap either!), some of us a lot more than 70% of the time.

I didn’t have any preconceived notions of what it would be like to lay my own eyes on Mount Denali. It was more beautiful, larger, and more mystical looking than what I could have imagined. So I guess one of my prayers for MCUSA right now is that people will gather knowing that God is so much bigger than what we already know right now. For people to go to Orlando believing that what they know of God or discipleship is good enough or just enough period, would be tragic.

My 10 year old nieces squealed with delight when seeing bears and moose in the wild. We adults did too. With binoculars in hand, we scanned the landscape for any sign of movement. Dare I dream of a church where children and adults are once again regularly amazed and delighted, actively looking for God’s fresh movement, maybe not with binoculars in hand, but you know what I mean. Again, I only dare to dream this an average of 30% of the time, sometimes more, sometimes less.


We learned that the first person who claimed to reach the summit of Mount Denali had miscalculated and hadn’t actually reached the highest point. How embarrassing. He planted his flag believing himself to have conquered the tallest mountain in North America. I fear Mennonites sometimes do this with peacemaking. We make these claims, congratulate ourselves, only to realize that sometimes violence is done in our very own homes and churches and over and over we miscalculate the damage done in Jesus’ name, or in the name of peacemaking; damage that can never be undone.

Eventually someone reached the true summit, and still to this day climbers from all over the world try to do the inconceivable. But very few make it, probably way fewer than 30%. That should keep us humble, hopefully with sights still set high.

I guess one final thought is that we couldn’t have survived Alaska without dramamine, Advil, mosquito repellent, and wine (for the responsible adults in my family).

So there you have it. That’s my pep talk. I will be praying for you and the wider church, at least 30% of the time next week. Oh, and bring Advil!


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A walk down memory boulevard

Today’s blog post comes by way of Brenda Beachey, who grew up attending Rainbow with her siblings and parents, Bonnie and Jake. Brenda now belongs to Village Presbyterian Church in KC

“Of all the gin joints…”

OK… the Vox Theatre is not exactly Rick’s Cafe, but “Casablanca” likely played the Vox in the 40’s, after it originally opened as the silent Rosedale Theater in 1922. Why was I at the Vox tonight?

oFor the last few years, I have been thinking about getting involved with the Dominican Republic Medical Partnership (DRMP), an international mission program established by Village Church in the 90s. From our church’s web site: “The mission is to improve the health and wellbeing of people living in the bateyes and barrios of the Dominican Republic and to promote sustainable health care efforts through partnerships. The DRMP’s mission is shaped y the gospel that bids us to love our neighbors, both near and far, as we love ourselves.” Village started this program in the 90s, but I don’t have any clinical skills so I have never really pursued it. I just didn’t know if I would be needed. However, as a wise friend said last night, “I just want to help”. Me too.

Anyway, back to the Vox. A few women from my Village Pres small group encouraged me to join them for the benefit last night. They had been last year and said it was a great event. They even offered to pick me up and sit at their table so I didn’t have to go by myself. Since I wasn’t driving, I didn’t look up the Vox on a map. When we turned onto Southwest Blvd and crossed the familiar railroad tracks, I got goosebumps. I told them how I had gotten stuck at the train at this crossing and been late for church as a kid too many times to count (no train tracks on the way to Village but I am still usually on the 5 minutes late side). I saw the Whitmore Playground coming up on the right; a beautiful family urban oasis built and maintained by the good people from my parents’ church. The park was buzzing with neighborhood families on this warm summer evening. Our car slowed and suddenly on the left I saw the bright orange VOX sign. We had arrived at our event. Last night’s Village Presbyterian event was held in Kansas City Kansas across the street from the stone church where my parents had been members (and my father is still an active member) for 50 years.

It is a place where a piece of my mother’s heart rests in their beautiful Remembrance Garden. So, how was it possible that I never noticed the Vox, the little jewel box with ornate pressed tin ceilings and a lush red velvet curtain, that stood right across the street? It had been there since the 1920s. Why did I end up in the shadow of Rainbow all these years later?
brenda 2Well the DRMP event was a big success with great food, music, and generous people. I look forward to figuring out my niche and hopefully joining a trip to the DR in 2018. However, last night something (or someone) was tugging at me to sneak out before dark and take a walk down memory lane, aka Southwest Blvd to Rainbow Mennonite Church.

I visited my sweet mama’s brick in the garden and I walked up the steps to the front door and looked out onto the church front yard where I noticed their signs. In 3 languages the signage read, “No matter where you are from, we’re glad you’re our neighbor”. I looked back across the street at the Vox and thought about all the good people in this world who are doing their part to shine their light, share theirs gifts, and make the world a better place. I was at an event in the 1400 block of Southwest Blvd to be reminded of who I was raised to be. It was a God thing.brenda 3

How was it possible that I drove by the Vox hundreds of times in my life and never noticed it? It turns out when the multiplexes became popular, the Vox closed. It became a run down nondescript building that housed a heating parts manufacturer, which of course was closed on Sundays. It wasn’t until in 2009, that Alistair Tutton purchased the building and brought back the name the Vox Theatre. Tutton remodeled the space to be used for his photography studio and an event space.

Closing reflections from Brenda:

As a kid I always thought it was so weird to drive all the way down there (SW Blvd) for church. It was actually only a 15-20 minute drive (if we beat the train😉) but it seemed a world away from my childhood in Northeast JoCo. Of course, looking back, so much of who I am was shaped by the same God that shows up anywhere two or more are gathered in his name. And more importantly, God needed the Beachey family to “do church” in that Rosedale KCK neighborhood.  Today, I am so thankful for God’s grace throughout my faith journey and for all the wonderful congregations I have been fortunate be be a part of; not the least of which was my upbringing at the old stone church on Southwest Blvd, outside the suburban bubble.


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A Father’s Day to remember


Timothy Harder

On Father’s Day, June 15, 1986, my 13 year old brother Timothy died as a result of drowning. Timmy suffered from epilepsy probably due to a brain injury at birth. It is believed he had a seizure while swimming, which contributed to his death.

If Timmy was still alive today, he would be 44 years old. So as we approach Father’s Day, I can’t help but wonder if he would have ever married and/or been a father.

Recently my parents gave me a box of old pictures and letters, and in this box was a booklet of reflections, poems, and memories written during the week following Tim’s death. I especially treasured looking through the letters my mom wrote to me in the days after Tim’s death, making careful and detailed observations about how I was processing death at such a young age (I was seven). But it was my dad’s piece called “The Boulder” that was especially meaningful to read.

Here it is below as well as some updated comments from my dad.


The Boulder

The boulder is huge, beyond the scope of human eyes. It fills its corner of the universe. It appears to have no crack or crevice. Perfection demands that it have no fault or seam; no root or drip permitted to penetrate its surface or threaten its core.

The boulder has its own reason for being and logic of movement. Its origins are unknown and its ways beyond knowing.

In closer view, the boulder’s cracks and crevices are revealed; its surface is scarred and pocked. And living things of all kinds find refuge in its imperfection. There are large crevices teeming with life. There are small crevices with weak and sick creatures huddled against one another for warmth and comfort. Life has taken root on the boulder and penetrates beneath its surface.

And then the boulder groans and shifts. Cracks and crevices are filled and life is crushed. Water and rock rush in to sever the tender tether of life. Bones are crushed and lungs without gills are filled with death. There is no warning, no protection. Big crevices and small, comfortable and sparse are sealed up in a moment, forever.

At the same time, new crevices are created; old ones improved. New timbers are erected; debris removed. Survivors seek to discover the rhythm of the boulder’s deadly dance and look for new secrets unlocked by its latest rumble. They bury their dead. Some rage, others bow; neither will alter the boulder’s relentless course.

Why does the boulder tolerate life it so carelessly and continuously crushes? Where did the creatures come from? Why do they keep their restless vigil for such a host? Is there purpose and understanding? Is the only purpose of one life to reach the next? Is there no protection to be found?

The questions go unanswered. Still, there is an unseen but not unknown solace. The creatures mourn and they comfort each other. They turn again to the task of enriching their surviving. They bend to the higher will of their existence. they follow an order that yields life and destroys it. And the boulder, too, groans and weeps for its victims. Its tears nurtures new life.

So life on the boulder goes on. The boulder will dance again and more living things will perish. Water still flows. Each dance creates new crevices and enlarges others and the roots of life penetrate ever deeper into the skin of the boulder.

And now, 31 years later, here are some additional comments from my dad:

I don’t recall all the circumstances that caused me to write this piece ten days after Tim died. I was trying to cope with the experience and trying to make sense of it from a perspective of faith. I remember a local pastor who was with us in the hospital waiting room trying to assure us that God was with us and with Tim and my blurting out, “a lot of good that did him (Tim).” I was struggling then and still struggle with the notion of providence and with tying to determine where God is in times like these.

The Boulder was /is the best that I can do with these questions. The world and life upon it is that boulder. In my experience, especially in the aftermath of Tim’s death, the boulder is hard, uncaring and capricious. It just is. It tolerates its inhabitants but does not care for them.

If the boulder operates without any discernible purpose, of course, there will be random acts of destruction and death. Stuff just happens.

The only solace is in the way that creatures inhabiting the boulder persist and persevere and care for each other. Random acts of kindness also happen.

As I read this piece again I noticed that the apparent random, capricious and sometimes deadly movements of the boulder are described as a “dance.” I think this metaphor came from our watching the technician in the cemetery gracefully moving around the grave as he lowered the casket into the grave and thinking of his movements as a dance. I found his movements strangely comforting.

Dance seems to connote purposeful action. So maybe the earth and the other boulders (planets) in the universe are guided by some larger purpose. I don’t know. I doubt it. But maybe there is still the possibility of purposeful action within the randomness of the universe. I hope so.

I hope so too, Dad.

Love you and Happy Father’s Day.

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