Too Many Directions

Things have evened off in my family in recent days, just in time for me to get into sermon prep mode once again. The gospel text for this week is Luke 8:26-39 - the healing of the demon-possessed man of Gerasene. A man who was so beset by evil that he lived a solitary life, among the tombs outside of town, the local pigs and their keepers his only regular company. A life marked by isolation, confusion, nakedness and delusion. His presence outside the town appears to have given the people residing within that town some sense of control over the scary things in life - chain them up, hide them away in the 'unclean,' outside-the-pale places, put them under guard and thereby feel morally superior and physically and psychically immune to any threat they might carry. That's what we still tend to do with those things that frighten us, don't you think? Especially those things within ourselves that we find scary, unruly, unpredictable, unacceptable. We chain them up and try and bury them, yet they can still surprise us with their potential for harm.

That's direction number one.

What must it be like to be inhabited by multitudes of evil forces? Modern western readers read this story from at least two very different points of view. Many cringe a little, put off by the very idea of demons, at least demons as they were understood in biblical times: malevolent spiritual entities which could, on occasion, 'possess' human beings. It is true that many non-religious people have been fascinated by the idea (hence the success of films like "The Exorcist," and even, it might be argued, the interest in witchcraft and the occult in successful book series like "Harry Potter," in this generation, and "The Oz" books in our parents'.) But I think it could be argued that the general intellectual zeitgeist of 21st century life would allow little room for belief in actual, literal demons. Too primiitive, too unsophisticated, too medieval, too weird. Most moderns (or post-moderns) are not comfortable with the whole idea of spiritual realities that invade our physical world.

But then there is that second point of view, one that causes me almost as much sadness as the first. Too many 21st century Christians give the idea of demons and demon possession more credence than the biblical record would warrant. There are teachers out there who would have us pray 'against' the demons in the corners of the hospital rooms we visit, who would too quickly lay blame for typical childhood misbehavior on the presence of a 'spirit of evil' possessing a child. Either extreme is unfortunate and unhelpful. Denying the presence of evil as a malevolent force at work in our world flies in the face of way too much evidence to the contrary - ask any homicide detective or forensic psychologist. But too quickly assigning every wrong-headed choice or misbegotten behavior to the work of the devil and his minions makes no space for human sinfulness or free will. Somewhere, there must be a happy medium (slight pun intended :>)

That's direction number two.

What are the demons that possess us in this day and age? What are we afraid of and how do we choose to cope with those fears? The Gerasene was a frightening figure, prone to violence, living as an outcast, a perfect picture of the untamed, usually unnamed, beasts that dwell within the human psyche. This story reminds us, with very powerful imagery, that Jesus has authority - healing, releasing, freedom-giving authority - over all those things that frighten us, that can at times conrol us, that cause us grief and pain. But we must allow Jesus free access to those fears if they are to be released. The demoniac was right in Jesus' face, recognizing his authority, bargaining with him and ultimately his demons were sent packing. The townspeople were so shaken by this demonstrastion of pwer and of health that they asked Jesus to leave them. I guess it depends on what you're most afraid of - the evil we know or the authority we don't quite understand and certainly can't control.

That's direction number three (or is it a restatement of direction number one???)

Pretty soon now, I'm going to have to choose where I'm headed. I'll try and keep you posted.

Time Marches On...

Yesterday, my 'baby' turned 35. I truly don't know how this is possible. At some moments, it does seem like yesterday that we discovered a third baby was on the way. This was not a planned pregnancy - it was a total surprise. We had two charming daughters - just under 4 and just under 2 years of age, so we decided to wait until grandparenthood to enjoy the company of boys. Dick was becoming increasingly unhappy at the bank where he then worked and we had recently purchased our first home in Altadena CA. Another baby was the last thing on our minds at that point.

But guess what? God has wonderful ways of surprising us, keeping us on our toes and reminding us that - whether we like to admit it or not - we are not in charge here. After 2 girls, we assumed this would be another just like the first two. When the doctor lifted him up, facing away from me (he was, from the very beginning, not one to arrive at anything in the expected or usual way), I could tell from his backside that this kid definitely did not match the other two! As our two and a half year old crowed into the telephone when we called her at Dick's folks' home that night: "Mommy had a brudder!" Yes, indeed, Mommy had a brother.

Eric brought so many good things to our family - a great smile, a sunny disposition, an ability to dismantle his port-a-crib at about 9 months of age, and a wonderful language all his own. Our visit to a speech therapist at the age of 4 provided the first clue that God had given this little boy an extra helping of thinking power. He grew up to study philosophy and medicine, married a woman even smarter than he is and now has a beautiful 19 month old baby girl. Although the sunny disposition has given way to a somewhat more measured and mature mellowness, Eric continues to bring wonderful gifts to our family circle. I am so very glad he was born and that God surprised us with such a grand gift.

Blogging Resistance

It's hard for me to get out here and write anything on this weird website when life is crazy. Things happen to me and in me that I'd like to write about, but wonder just who might read it and what they might think. Some things, apparently, are too deeply personal to put into words for public consumption.

I've always been a big one for saying what I think - even though I usually need to write in order to do that. I never think quickly enough in conversation, especially difficult, tense conversation. I try to resist anger - and lapse into withdrawal; I try to resist sarcasm - and lapse into stammering non sequitors; I try to resist shock - and lapse into stunned silence. Which is the same thing, I guess. I'm not very good at engaging issues in the moment, especially in situations where I feel uncertain or threatened. So this space has been a breathing point for me. I can write about things I care about, express opinions, try out ideas ---- without the pressures inherent in conversation. But I find that I cannot easily write about those things that are nearest and dearest to my heart, especially when they involve people I care about and situations that are scary. And we are in the middle of a very scary one these days.

So, one of these days soon I hope to get back to this space with reflections on scripture, on life, on ministry. But right now, there is no room inside for much else besides putting one foot in front of the other as I try to stay centered in the Spirit, faithfully do the tasks I am assigned at work, love my family in all their various settings and difficulties, and do a little better job at self-care. Hope to 'talk' to you soon.

Ascension

Say what? I'm preaching again, for the first time in 9 weeks, and I'm acutely conscious of how very rusty I am - especially when the assigned topic is the ascension...something I've never studied in detail and have reflected on very little in my lifetime. And I'm working off some painful comments from a friend who informed me, that while he remembers every sermon I've ever preached here, he thinks I've gotten too dependent on script and, as a result, have 'tightened' in the pulpit, rather than 'loosened.' Ouch.

Hmmm...I preach pretty sporadically - to be expected in the ministry of a part-time associate. And preaching is serious stuff - after all, you basically stand in the pulpit to proclaim the word of God. And at the end of the day, I am a dreadfully insecure and anxious person. Put it all together, and it spells WRITER'S BLOCK. Top that with soul-searching about whether or not to experiment with a completely new style/mode of presentation...and you have your basic 5-car pile-up.

Now I've made progress in the insecurity stuff. Grace has touched my life through scripture, prayer, therapy, good friends, loving family, words of affirmation here and there. But, if I cut to the chase - I'm still pretty much a basket case as I contemplate this calling God has sent my way. What in the world can I possibly say that hasn't already been said and said a whole lot better elsewherer?? Nevertheless, the task is mine and the sermon must be written.

It never ceases to amaze me that the sermons I preach are always, and I do mean ALWAYS, preached to me first. Whatever the topic of the week may be - whether I've chosen the text or it's been given to me - it seems as though the first work of the Spirit needs doing in me before I can even begin to contemplate unpacking the word for others. And this week has been a doozy - 3 car trips of 100 miles +, difficult crises in our wider family circle on multiple levels, tension and fatigue at home, most of it due to this crazy, over-long remodeling process, and interesting cross-currents at work. All of it combines to create a sense of helplessness and hopelessness in me, a deep-seated feeling of abandonment, loneliness and weariness. It seems I need a good dose of the ascension to remind me who I am and who I am not.

Luke is the only gospel writer to include any description of the ascension in his account of Jesus' life. Mark has the story end with the women running in fear from the empty tomb; Matthew has the disciples gathering on a mountaintop in Galilee to hear the Great Commission, John has an encounter at the beach, where Jesus joins them in a fish barbecue. Luke is the only one to mention Jesus floating mysteriously upward, disappearing into heaven from a hill near Bethany, as the disciples worship him and then joyfully return to Jerusalem. It is only in Luke's second volume - the book of Acts - that a little more detail is provided. Because it is Acts that tells the story of the Holy Spirit and of the church, and the ascension is a key piece in that larger narrative.

As Luke says in verse two of chapter one of Acts, the first book (the gospel) was 'about all that Jesus began to do and to teach until the day he was taken up into heaven.' All that Jesus began to do and to teach...implying that there is much more to tell, don't you think? And somehow that bit about 'until the day he was taken up into heaven' is a kind of dividing line between that beginning (the gospel) and now (the book of Acts). Something happens in that strange, apparition-like moment. Something happens that changes the shape of the ministry of Jesus, but not the content. An important transition is being made, a re-formation of Jesus himself, in a sense, a transformation from a single adult male walking the dusty roads of Palestine in the 1st century world of the Roman Empire to a multi-faceted, multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, multi-multi organic union that surrounds the globe and transcends time.

I have a new Macintosh laptop computer, courtesy of the church. It is a wonderful little machine, the operative word for this story being 'little.' I am a large person, with big hands, and not a particularly light 'touch.' So I find using a pad to move the cursor awkward and difficult . I invested in a wireless mouse, which comes in two parts - the part you plug into the laptop that provides the signal, and the small mouse, which moves the cursor in a way that is easier for me to manage. Last night, I packed up my computer and took it home, thinking I might get some work done there. I packed up the plug-in device for the mouse, but not the mouse itself. The wireless sending device did nothing for me without that mouse, I'm sorry to say. It was back to the touch pad if I wanted to do anything on the computer. This afternoon, I came back to the office to work because it is quieter than the hammering going on at home. The mouse was right here, sitting on my desk. But....the sending device didn't make it back into my bag, I am also sorry to say. I need both pieces to effectively work on this machine with ease and comfort, the one that sends the signal and the one that receives it.

In a very crude, analogous way, that's what the ascension is at least partially about. The work of salvation for which Jesus came to the earth was completed by his ministry, his death and his resurrection from the dead. He accomplished the ultimate expresstion of God's love for our broken and fallen humanity both on the cross and through the empty tomb. "It is finished," Jesus cried from that cross. The job is done, the debt is paid, the love of God is spilt for the whole world to witness.

He did not say, "I am finished," because he is not. Jesus is still at work in the world - only now the more hands-on part of that work is being done by the Spirit, in and through the church and the individuals who make up the body of Christ in this post-ascension age. In the gospel of John, Jesus tells his disciples that he must return to the Father (read 'ascend to heaven') so that the Comforter can come. And several of the epistles tell us that Jesus, in his resurrected and ascended humanity/divinity, is now seated 'at the right hand of God,' interceding for us, his church, as we continue to do the Jesus-stuff he commissioned us to do - announcing the kingdom of God, making disciples and working toward that day when God's kingdom will be fully realized.

And how do we do this work? By the power of the Holy Spirit, that sweetly personal and fearfully omnipresent third person of the Trinity, sent with love by both Father and Son, to fill the saints with light in every generation. There is a beauty and a symmetry to this plan - a wonderful way in which the persons of the Trinity work together to make sure the 'signal' is made available to all of the body of Christ. You need the mouse, you need the transmitter, you need the computer to make it all work well. I'm going to stop there, rather than trying to pair images and lapse into either blasphemy or triviality! But i think you get the picture.

Jesus, in his magnificently glorified humanity (worthy of crown-wearing) breathes his life and teaching into the church through the Spirit, who moves unhampered by the limits of flesh in and amongst the millions of persons who together form Christ's body here. And that together part is pretty key. In former times, the Spirit of God lit on individuals, anointed for specific, often short, periods of time to do special work. (Each of the judges, all of the prophets, an occasional king or two are noted as having the Spirit of God anoint them for very particular purposes.) Only after the completed work of Jesus, eternally incarnated in form, could the Spirit be released in multiplicity and in perpetuity to continue doing the work that the incarnate Jesus began. There are 11 of them gathered on that hillside in Bethany and there are at least 120 of them gathered in the upper room 10 days later when the Spirit descends in power to ignite the newly forming church of Jesus Christ. Wow! What a picture, what a truth.

So, after a particularly hairy week, this is very good news for me. Jesus is King, sitting at the right hand of God, praying for me (and, of course, the entire body of Christ :>). Praying for my daughter and her husband, praying for my mother and my brother, praying for our church, praying for all of the burdens I carry around, so often under the impression that they are mine to solve, to fix, to rescue. The ascension of Jesus reminds me, once again!!, that there is a God, a God who is sovereign, a God who is engaged with creation, a God who knows what it is like to wear this frail human frame, a God whose frail human frame has been transformed into that of an eternal co-regent with the Father who prays not only for me, but for all the church in every corner of this world, praying for the coming of the kingdom in each one of those corners.

And the ascension also reminds me that I am not alone, that I am never alone. God's Spirit is with me - through the Word, through prayer and through the gathered body of Jesus, the church - that community that is flawed, imperfect, sometimes recalcitrant, often shortsighted and frequently prone to wander, yet still wondrously, miraculously, by the grace of God, the church, the together-people who form the body of Jesus to do the work of the kingdom on planet earth. Thanks be to God!

Good Friday

It was a simple service. The sanctuary was stripped - no altar, no pulpit, no greenery. Our magnificent tall candlestand, the Christ candle guttering atop it, was the only adornment in the chancel. A length of black cloth hung from one side of the cross and seven identical, small, pillar candles, sitting on plain glass plates, were spaced on the two plaster counters below the screens. Don and I and our talented musicians - Chris on piano, Dan on guitar, Paul on trumpet, Anne on oboe and Phil on violin - wore black clothing and quiet expressions. Martha had selected some marvelous crucifixion artwork, one for each of the seven last words, and they graced the screens as each lesson was offered. Don gave me the great gift of assembling this year's Good Friday service, a task I embraced and deeply appreciated.

The traditional rhythm of lesson and response, coupled with diminishing light as each word was read, filled the room with a sober, respectful and expectant stillness. The musicians were amazing, echoing with rich, mournful sounds. The words before the extinguishing of the last side candle were these: "It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Jesus called out with a loud voice, 'Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.' When he had said this, he breathed his last." (Luke 23)

The light of the world is fading, the end has come. Jesus has passed through the pain of fear, of betrayal, of denial, of humiliation, of unjust accusation, of torture, of despair. Love is hung on a cross and left to die alone. Yet, at the end of it all, the valley of darkness has not been the valley of abandonment. The Father of Lights, the Father of Life, the Father is there, ready to receive this gift of love.

The room went dark as Don carried the still lit Christ candle out of the building, and the oboe and violin played, "Were You There?"

Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift.

Holy Week

Despite the pressures of a remodel gone terribly, terribly wrong; despite the gnawing concern about my son-in-law's health and my daughter's intensive education program; despite my own recurrent struggles with overeating and under-exercising, with my own idiosyncratically strange mix of laziness, drivenness, self-doubt and grandiosity - despite the various stresses and messes of my life and my family's life and my community's life...this has been a Holy Week filled with gratitude and grace.

Our immediate family of 15 had a sweet afternoon together one week before this week began. Dick turned 65 and we all gathered together at a tappan restaurant in Thousand Oaks on a Sunday afternoon. We had two super samurai chefs, with their slicing and dicing and volcano-making skills dazzling us all. We laughed as Dick donned a strange looking headpiece and bright blue kimono for a birthday picture. Then we traveled to Lisa and Mark's home to enjoy birthday cake and babies. These two beautiful gifts of God have lightened and brightened our family gatherings for 18 months now, reminding us, even in the midst of all the pain and uncertainty of Mark and Lisa's struggle, that life is a glorious gift, no matter what. They are living reminders of all that is good and beautiful, fun and fragile about this world.


Griffin is 18 months old, full of vinegar, climbing all over everywhere and keeping his mom awake most of the night. He is comical, loves to giggle, babbles to himself constantly - complete with inflection - moves around as quick as lightning and his smile lights up the room.


Gracie is 17 months old, loves to dance and sing, and recently, she too, is busy babbling to herself. Very soon now, they will both burst forth with full-fledged sentences and stun us all. Put them together in the same space, and the real fun begins. Whether stacking colored, wooden rings or banging out harmonies on the piano, they are quite a pair.












Life is such a bittersweet experience, filled with wonder and grief. How very grateful I am for these two precious reminders of all that is wonder-filled and glorious about the human experience.

Jesus and Prayer

What a topic. The text is Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane - Mark's version. The assignment is to confine my remarks to 20 minutes or less, to capsulize the teaching and the modeling of Jesus about prayer, and to do it with truth and love.

How did I ever get myself into this???

The preaching task is always an overwhelming one. An intriguing, challenging, convicting, enormously rewarding one, but still....to think that any human person has the right to speak on behalf of Almighty God, to bear the good news to the church, to parse sacred text...yikes.

And, of course, living with the text over time means that the preacher is the first to hear the sermon. If the text doesn't knock me to my knees, shouting truth into my own heart and spirit somewhere in the process of reading/researching/thinking/praying/talking it through with others, then I will have nothing to say to anyone else. And this one has just knocked me flat.

I had a marvelous, fortuitous conversation with a dear friend about this text two weekends ago. We were seated on very old, very sketchy metal folding chairs in a very crowded, very noisy gymnasium, sharing our thoughts over catered chicken The occasion was the memorial service for Warren Thompson (which would require another entire blog!), and Dick and I happily reconnected with Charles and Kate Barker over our lunch. We were just coming off a brief, but deeply thoughtful conversation with our son and daughter-in-law about prayer - about how we so often view prayer as another in a list of tools to help us manipulate God, to work 'magic,' to utilize (in the philosophical, utilitarian sense) our faith to bring about a desired end. And I mentioned some of this to Charlie while we were swallowing salad and rice. He quickly responded with a story from his own life.

When he was a student, Charlie's mother was diagnosed with cancer and she fought that hard battle for several years before dying. His dad was a pastor and professor and eventually provost at Fuller Seminary, and Charlie asked him how he prayed for his wife, how he prayed for Mom. "I always remember Jesus' prayer in the garden when I pray for your mom, Charlie. I always remember first that I'm talking to 'abba,' my Father, who loves me, who loves your mom. Then I ask for what I want, clearly and carefully. I want your mom to be well and strong and with us for a while and I'm clear in asking for that. But I finish my prayer as Jesus did, relinquishing my need to get what I want and trusting in God's sovereign right to heal in ways that go beyond what I can see and touch in this life."

There it is - a 3 point sermon, served along with bundt cake! I am continuing to read and reflect (today, I'm plowing through a wonderful gift from my friend Anita, a small, brilliant book entitled "Everything Belongs," by Richard Rohr, about contemplative prayer), but those 3 points are where I'm headed. Along the way, I will probably touch on a lot of other sub-points, including the way in which this small story shows us Jesus' full and complete humanity in ways that no other story does. And I'll probably note one other thing that Glenn Barker mentioned, "that Jesus asked 3 times - just like Paul asked 3 times that the thorn be removed from his side - before he offered that prayer of relinquishment for the final time." And who can ignore the 3 fold admonition to 'watch' given to the sleepy disciples. Because that's a lot of what prayer is about, isn't it? Placing ourselves regularly, preferably continually, in a position of prayer, of watchfulness, of presence, of paying attention, even more than it is about saying the right words - or even saying any words at all.

I am blown away by Jesus' wrestling match in that olive garden on the night in which he was betrayed. He went right from warm fellowship in the upper room to the cool solitude of the garden, from the comfort of the reclining supper chair, to the hard reality of the rocky ground, from a place of acceptance and understanding of what was to come, to a place of resistance and fear about the painful death ahead.

I am humbled by this story, I am moved by it and I am deeply, deeply grateful for it. It gives me great hope to read that the Savior of the world wrestled with the harsher realities of this life, that he wanted to avoid pain, that he struggled with the dark stuff, the hard stuff, the ugly stuff. It helps, of course, to know the end of the story, that end toward which we move during these weeks of Lent. It helps to know about and to firmly grasp the reality of the empty tomb.

Yet what I truly cherish about this passage in Mark (14:32-42) is how it shows us the fullness of Jesus' humanity in ways that most of our Jesus stories do not. Perhaps that is so because of the insight it offers into his emotional and spiritual struggles. For even though, just days before this encounter on the hillside, Jesus was able to speak prophetically about the restoration of the 'temple' of his body in 3 days, it is clear in this episode that Jesus had to move toward his own death with the same fears we all have about this unknown territory. And because it is unknown, mysterious territory - and despite the reality that we all must face it someday - we resist death, we deny it, we cry out against it. Even Jesus cried out for deliverance from the painful unknowing-ness of it all.

Many biblical scholars tell us that this struggle in the garden was about Jesus' fear of the separation from the Father which he knew was coming. Maybe. But maybe he was just plain scared of the pain, scared of the suffering, scared of the unknown, just as all we humans are. And there is something strangely comforting to me in that idea. To think that the son of God, our fully human, fully divine savior, was scared of what lay ahead of him somehow helps to relieve my own fears. It's a paradox, maybe even an oxymoron, to say that. And yet it's true. There is a wonderful way in which Jesus' wrestling in the garden helps me to lean into my own humanity a little bit more willingly and easily, to accept my own feebleness and fearfulness with less self-condemnation and disdain.

But here's what truly, strongly cheers me in this story: after the struggle, after the tears, after the first of what would soon be an avalanche of disappointments and betrayals from his friends - after all of that, Jesus moves out in confidence and trust to meet his enemies, to meet his future. "Rise. Let us go," he says to the speechless, feckless disciples. "Enough! The hour has come. Look, the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners."

At the end of the day, at the end of that long night, Jesus chose to trust God. Jesus chose to believe that God was at work, even in the ugliness of betrayal and conflict, even in the midst of false accusations and illegal trials, even in the brutality of torture and death. Even there, God is. Once it became clear that God was not going to intervene in the way that Jesus wanted him to do, he made a conscious, deliberate choice to trust God anyhow. To trust that God would take the mess and work a miracle in the midst of it. To trust that God would accomplish something so beautiful, so powerful, so filled with hope and promise that the world would never be the same again...even out of the fearful, ugly, horrible and painful death that awaited him.

"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known," the apostle Paul wrote to the church at Corinth. For the period of his 'tabernacling' with us here on earth, Jesus gave up his right to see 'face to face,' to 'know fully,' and he lived within the limits that we as human beings endure. But here's what he learned through living a life of prayer, prayer that came to fruition in that garden across from the temple mount. He learned to trust that he was fully known, he learned to trust that the one who fully knew him, fully loved him, he learned to wrestle through his fears...in the presence of the God who knew and loved him...and to emerge on the other side with a confidence and a courage that challenged every definition of confidence and courage that his world had constructed. May we learn from his example!

Ashes...

Today is Ash Wednesday. We held a small, intimate service at midday, maybe 30 people came. Dan played the guitar beautifully, everyone sang so well and the space was welcoming. Jeanne and Alice set up a beautiful Lenten tableau of bare sticks, rocks, dark candles and Spanish moss, all of it calling us to a quiet space, a simple space, a sober space, a remembering space. Because this is a day for remembering, for remembering who we are - the dust of the earth - and for remembering who God is: the one who comes in love, willing to suffer on our behalf.

Three members of the gathered community read the words of scripture for us, the familiar words for this day from the prophet Joel, the apostle Paul and Jesus himself, in Matthew's gospel. Arleen read so beautifully, her voice full of pathos, almost to the point of tears as she closed out her passage..."The priests, who minister in the Lords' presence, will stand between the people and the altar, weeping..." Frank worried about his voice holding up, but he made it through the verses from 2 Corinthians just fine. Jim wondered if he'd still be there when the gospel reading came to pass, as he had a commitment at 1:00 p.m. He had time to spare, and then stayed longer anyhow. It was a rich time, filled with grace and tenderness and I am grateful to have, once again, been privileged to lead and to offer ashes to dearly loved friends and even a few strangers. We missed Don very much, but are grateful for his and Martha's ministry in Kenya these early weeks of Lent.

Dan was the last to receive ashes from my thumb, and then he impressed them on me, offering the ancient words, "Remember you are dust; repent and believe the gospel." We offered prayers on behalf of others, we passed the peace and we read the final blessing to one another as we went back out into the world. And even though the dark marks on my forehead brought strange stares in the supermarket, I was grateful for their presence. For these dark specks in the shape of a cross testify to this day, this season, of reflection and repentance and remembering. May God bless us all as we live Lent this year.