As Long As We Are Dreaming...

TLDR: I think the United Methodist Church should abandon our mission statement.

This week, a few hundred United Methodists are gathering in Calgary, Canada to dream about the future. Which is so cool. The participants were chosen by the bishops, and each was given a set of questions to work on prior to the conference. The questions were all geared toward things that need to be changed in the denomination. Also, so cool. I truly love the spirit of reform in the air!

And so, as long as we are reforming things, how about we go right to the heart of it? 

Since 2000, the official mission statement of the UMC has been to “make disciples,” a phrase that comes from Matthew 28:19. Prior to 2000, the denomination did not have a mission statement. Then in 2008 the phrase, “...for the transformation of the world” was added to the statement. And so at the moment the mission statement, comprising paragraph 120 of the Book of Discipline, reads as follows: The mission of the Church is to make disciples of Jeus Christ for the transformation of the world. Local churches and extension ministries of the Church provide the most significant arenas through which disciple-making occurs.

That mission statement arose in the midst of systemic anxiety created by decades of numerical decline. At that time, denominational leadership decided that borrowing strategies from the business world would be the pathway out of that decline, and the adoption of a formal mission statement was a part of that pathway. It was a trend beyond the United Methodist Church, and had been for a couple of decades. (We have never been “early adopters.”)

So, it has been our official mission statement for twenty-six years, and it is high time to ask, “Is it working?”

I appreciate the reform-minded questions that ask, “What should we do differently in order to make disciples of Jesus more effectively?” But the question I want to ask is, “What should we do differently so that we can be the church that God is calling us to be, and does God maybe want us to focus on something other than disciple-making?” It is a new season, a new church is emerging, and maybe the way we talk about our mission should, too.

After all, there are a whole myriad of other options. Matthew 28:19 is just one verse, and there is no need to choose that one over any other. I suspect one reason it was chosen is because it is the verse most directly related to numerical growth, the pressing issue of the day. But there are others. For example, my choice would be the “new commandment” of John 13 - “Love one another.” Can you imagine how different things might be today if, in the year 2000, the United Methodist Church had adopted that as the mission statement?

The mission of the Church is to love people like Jesus loves them.

Isn’t that a breath of fresh air? Of course, it is really hard to make a s.m.a.r.t. goal from that! And how do you develop a strategic plan based on loving your neighbor? If we cannot measure it, how will we know if we are doing it?!?

I don’t know, but maybe we have moved past the season where anxiety about numerical growth governs every decision we make. In a way, the mission to “make disciples” actually adds anxiety into a system already anxious about decline. We are not only still in decline, we are also failing at our mission, which was (ironically) adopted to try to reverse decline! Ahh!

If the simplicity of loving one another isn’t active enough for us, how about Mark 16? The mission of the Church is to go into the world and proclaim the Good News to every creature. Or if we are not limited to the specific words of Jesus, how about 1st Thessalonians 5? The mission of the church is to encourage one another and build each other up. Even the second part of the sentence begun in Matthew 28:19 could be used: The mission of the church is to teach people to obey the commands of Jesus. And whatever happened to the “baptizing them” part of the verse? Why did we decide to skip that? So. Many. Options!

Look, I understand, the “making disciples” statement has historic roots, beyond its year 2000 appearance in the Book of Discipline. After all, the Christian tradition calls that verse the “Great Commission!” (Not that that title is in the Biblical text itself, you understand. It is an editorial heading added to the Gospel. But anyway.) And it is likely so deeply woven into the fabric of our faith that its removal is not an option. 

But it’s the week for the United Methodist Church to dream, and this is one of mine. The last thing I want is to limit what God is calling us to do by sticking to disciple-making as our mission without critically, faithfully, and prayerfully wondering if maybe we should let Jesus handle that part. Which would alleviate the anxiety and free us up to truly reimagine the possibilities for our beloved Methodist movement.

General Conference 2020 / 2024

In this past week, following the United Methodist General Conference, numerous summaries, reports, and characterizations have been offered. True Metho-nerds will have read or watched many of them, from the most celebratory to the most forlorn. I have no reason to expect you to read mine.

But here it is, anyway:

The 2020 General Conference, rescheduled for 2024, marks the beginning of a revival in the United Methodist Church. We are in full reform mode, and history will show that these past five years were a season of tilling and planting. And now, the garden is about to bloom!

We have repented of our colonial structure, and have begun to atone by creating more regional autonomy. We have repented of our discriminatory rules, and have begun to atone by removing restrictions on ordination and marriage for people in the LGBT+ community. We have repented of our divisiveness, and have begun to atone by leaving the season of disaffiliation behind.

Now, I do not mean we have attained perfection, only that we are on our way there. To be sure, the Spirit is still working on us, and there is much to do before the world looks like God wants it to. But now, more than any time in my experience, there is an openness to the Spirit's work. It is this openness to the movement of the Spirit that inspires me.

REGIONALIZATION - In the future, there will be a General Book of Discipline and a General Conference to deal with matters that are important to the entire denomination. Connectional ministries, doctrine, ecumenical relationships, and those kinds of things. And there will be Regional Conferences that will create policies and procedures specific to the regions. Every current Central Conference will become a Regional Conference, and the United States will be a Regional Conference, bringing a level of equity to our system. A team has been created to work on the initial U.S. Regional Conference. For now, there will still be Jurisdictional Conferences in the U.S., but some have suggested changes to that structure, also. Time will tell. And although the plan passed overwhelmingly at GC, it requires amendments to the UMC's constitution, so it must be ratified at the Annual Conferences. Every AC votes, and when all votes are tallied it must pass by a two-thirds majority. That is what is known as an "aggregate vote." We will not know if the plan has passed for another 18 months or so.

REMOVAL OF RESTRICTIONS - As of the end of this General Conference, sexual orientation is no longer a restriction on a person seeking ordination. Also as of the end of this General Conference, there are no longer any restrictions on clergy performing same-sex weddings, nor on congregations hosting them. No requirements were passed, meaning the decision to marry a couple still resides with the pastor. The effort was very much like the "Simple Plan" that was offered in 2019 in that it simply removed restrictive language. Such restrictions were scattered throughout many different sections of the Book of Discipline, and so removing them all required dozens of petitions. (Petitions can only deal with one particular paragraph of the Discipline.) Almost all of these changes passed so overwhelmingly that they were a part of the Consent Calendar process. It only takes twenty people to remove an item from the Consent Calendar in order to debate it on the floor, meaning had there been any serious resistance to the changes it could easily have been brought to floor for debate. There wasn't. And they weren't.

DELETION OF DISAFFILIATION - "Paragraph 2553" was created and passed in 2019 at the special called session of General Conference held in St. Louis. It allowed for congregations to disaffiliate from the denomination if they did not agree with denominational positions on marriage and ordination. Ironically, it was written to allow more progressive congregations a gracious exit, but was used almost exclusively by traditionalist congregations. This paragraph was officially deleted from the Book of Discipline, and every petition seeking to extend this disaffiliation time to allow for more disaffiliations was "rejected in favor of" the petition to delete paragraph 2553. Calls for unity won the day. That's not to say that the UMC is monolithic - far from it. We are as diverse a denomination as we ever were. We simply seem to have lost our appetite for divisiveness. A new spirit of connectionalism is emerging.

There are a dozen other things I could mention. Ordained Deacons now have sacramental authority. The United Methodist Church will soon be in a "full communion" relationship with the Episcopal Church. There will be fewer bishops in the United States, saving the denomination millions of dollars. There is a new retirement plan for United Methodist clergy. There was a lot!

But the headline for me is reform. After 2019, the denomination awoke. What happened at the General Conference in St. Louis did not align with our identity as Methodists. The years of disaffiliations were both heartbreaking and clarifying. Decades of struggle for justice and equity brought us to this kairos moment, and the future ahead seems very bright.

In many ways, the denominational reforms we saw happen in Charlotte were just a matter of playing catch-up to where the people already were. That's how reform always happens, seems to me - from the bottom, up. It is a good time to be United Methodist, and I cannot wait to see what God does with us!

If I Was Preaching Today

If I was preaching today, I would proclaim the Gospel, for there is a Gospel to proclaim, and I am called to proclaim it.

If I was preaching today, I would use Psalm 98:1 and entreat the church to "Sing to the Lord a new song, for God has done marvelous things." I would talk in particular about the marvelous things God has been doing in our denomination for the past five years, since the United Methodist Church woke up in February of 2019. Marvelous things that came to fruition in Charlotte over these past two weeks.

If I was preaching today, I would do all I could to convey the vibrant diversity present in the United Methodist Church, diversity that was on full display in Charlotte at General Conference. I would celebrate the Methodist ethos that unites us across the globe, even as we navigate the contextual particularities that make us unique in our various regions. 

If I was preaching today, I would have a renewal of baptism as part of the service, leaning into Acts 10:47, in which Peter asks, "Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing those who have received the Holy Spirit" and I would invite as many deacons as I could find there to celebrate. I would ask people to start fresh from today, knowing that the Holy Spirit has set our denomination free from decades of bitter animosity.

If I was preaching today, I would read 1 John 5:3: "For the love of God is this, that we obey God's commandments. And God's commandments are not burdensome." And then I would talk about the many "burdensome" things that the United Methodist Church has just removed from our Book of Discipline, eliminating restrictive and harmful rules that prevented LGBT+ people from seeking ordination and getting married in their own church. 

If I was preaching today, I would have people stand for the reading of John 15:9-17 and center in on what it means to love one another as Jesus loves us. And point out that Jesus loves us like the Father loves him, that is, so intimately and unconditionally that the two are all but indistinguishable from one another. Which means that we are to love one another the same way, intimately and unconditionally, as friends of Christ, who unites us in spite of our attempts to disaffiliate from one another.

If I was preaching today, I would celebrate the hope and joy of a new day for United Methodism, and encourage the church to follow the Holy Spirit as she leads us into freedom in community together. There is still so much work to be done, and by God's grace this church is doing it. This is a pivotal moment for this denomination, and congregations all over the world are gathering to celebrate. 

Truly, this is the day the Lord has made! And we are called to rejoice, and be glad in it! Alleluia, Amen!

"But the Lord Helped Me"

Palm Sunday, the Sixth Sunday in Lent, is a cry for help.

In churches around the world, the words of Psalm 118 will be heard in worship services this week. One word in particular will predominate - "Hosanna." It comes from Psalm 118:25, a word that comes to the English language through a few other languages from its likely place of origin, two Hebrew words that in combination comprise a powerful request of the Lord: "Please, save us now!"

For expediency's sake, many worship services will abbreviate the Psalm, including exclusively the verses prescribed in the lectionary, verses 1-2 and 19-29. When we do so, we skip over some very important ideas, verses that actually inform the subsequent cry for salvation, verses like 10-14:

All nations surrounded me;

    in the name of the Lord I cut them off!

They surrounded me, surrounded me on every side;

    in the name of the Lord I cut them off!

They surrounded me like bees;

    they blazed like a fire of thorns;

    in the name of the Lord I cut them off!

I was pushed hard, so that I was falling,

    but the Lord helped me.

The Lord is my strength and my might;

    he has become my salvation.

Listen to the pain the poem describes. The Psalmist has felt such intense, relentless trauma, like bees buzzing in an angry swarm. They describe their experience not just as trying to walk through a patch of thorn bushes, but a patch of thorn bushes that are also on fire! They have been pushed hard, pushed to the point of falling. 

And at the same time, listen to the strength, the resolve, the power of the poem here. "I cut them off! ... I cut them off! ... I cut them off!" A repeated refrain, a statement that celebrates an act of overcoming, made with a slashing gesture through clenched teeth.

And notice, it is not the Psalmist whose power was at work here. No, it was the Lord's. God is the one doing the saving, then, now, and always. The adversity was cut off "in the name of the Lord." The Psalmist does not celebrate their own strength, but rather that "the Lord is my strength." 

I am not strong, says the poet, but God is. And God's strength is sufficient to get through what needs getting through. Even if it is a forest full of burning thorn bushes. 

And of course eventually, Psalm 118 gets us to the "Hosanna" and the "Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord" and the "Bind the festal procession with branches" stuff. And it is so good to celebrate this sacred day - the ushers handing out leaves purchased from a worship supply store, you self-consciously waving the leaves above your head during the opening song while the kids self-consciously parade around the room, then not quite knowing what to do with it for the rest of the service, (or if you are a kid smacking your sibling with it when your grown-up isn't looking), picking it up again for the closing hymn and waving it again but a bit less energetically, taking it home with you and putting it on the kitchen counter until it gets dry and brittle and then throwing it away. You know, the Palm Sunday liturgy. It's all good.

But maybe this year, when you receive that store-bought palm, maybe you can recall a time when life felt like being surrounded by a swarm of angry, buzzing bees. Maybe the slender points of the leaflets will call to mind a season when your life required you to walk through a burning hedge of thorn bushes. Maybe for you this year that "Hosanna" can mean something deep, something you feel at the very core of your being. 

Maybe this year Palm Sunday will remind you that when you need help (and yes you do need help - all of us do), God will help you. 

I am not strong, but God is. "With the Lord on my side I do not fear. What can mortals do to me?" (v. 6) And so now I give thanks, for the Lord is good. God's steadfast love endures forever.

"They Shall All Know Me"

"You cannot shake hands with a clenched fist." - Indira Gandhi

The fifth Sunday in Lent invites us to open up to what God has to give us, if we will allow ourselves to do so. 

...this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts, and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.  No longer shall they teach one another or say to each other, “Know the Lord,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord, for I will forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more. (Jeremiah 31:33-34)

 I love the symbol of the raised, clenched fist. It is a symbol of protest, of resistance. A raised fist says, "I shall not be moved." There are times to raise our fists in the face of evil, injustice, and oppression, in whatever forms they present themselves.

But there are other times we clench fists. We do so to fight, to punish, to protect ourselves from our enemies and close ourselves off. We clench fists and flex to warn, to show that we intend to do harm. Fists clenched in anger and animosity are very different from fists raised in resistance.

It is difficult to receive an offered gift with clenched fists. Impossible to shake hands. Clumsy to caress a cheek. Bizarre to blow a kiss. 

The prophet Jeremiah wants us to know that God has something to give us, a new covenant, an unmediated connection, a true relationship. And apparently, God intends to just write it on our hearts, so that there will truly be no "haves" and "have-nots" in God's family. Every single one of us is getting this gift, given freely and directly from God.

Are we ready to receive it? Are we open to it? Are our hands, hearts, minds, voices ... are we uncovered and emptied out, laid bare and vulnerable enough to actually receive what God is offering us?

At our best, the church is a community in which it is safe to unclench our fists, to receive one another, to embrace our siblings without fear of judgment or betrayal. We don't always attain that way of being, of course. But we're working on it. Some would even call it "Reign of God" work, which is (as followers of Jesus know) already among us.

God has something to give us. All of us. ALL of us. (Did I say "all" of us?") Grace isn't something that God gave you and now it is up to you to give it to everyone else. "They shall all know me!" God has given everyone this amazing gift, and all you have to do is realize that, recognize it, and celebrate it. 

My prayer for you on this Fifth Sunday in Lent is that you would open yourself up to God, and allow yourself to receive the life-changing gift God is giving you. And then, to understand the implications of this profound truth - God is doing the very same thing for each and every person you encounter.

"Look at the serpent of bronze and live"

 The fourth Sunday in Lent is a reminder that God is with us.

 The people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.” (Numbers 21:5)

The complaint came to Moses as the people were making their way through the wilderness, having been liberated from slavery in Egypt but having not yet arrived in the Promised Land. There were some mixed feelings among the people, naturally. I'm sure there was a lot of joy for being free, and at the same time a lot of anxiety and fear; they knew neither where they were going, how long the journey would take, nor what to expect when they got there.

And so, they complain. Naturally.

Many have noted the contradiction: the people complain both that there is no food and that the food tastes terrible. This, of course, is more than just a fun detail of the story. The contradiction means that the complaint wasn't really about food. Theirs was a fear they could not articulate, for it was too big, too complicated, too difficult to name. And so, they complained about the food.

What happened next is so strange, it is almost comical. The Bible says that the Lord sent poisonous snakes that bit the people, killing many of them. And though there is nothing in the text that explicitly indicates a causal connection, we cannot help but read the killer snakes as a consequence of the people's complaining.

In response to the snake predicament, God has Moses make a snake out of bronze and attach it to a pole. The idea is that people look at the snake on the pole and they won't die from the snake bite. "Moses made a serpent of bronze and put it upon a pole, and whenever a serpent bit someone, that person would look at the serpent of bronze and live." 

If we are being honest, this is completely hilarious and bizarre to think about. It offends our 21st century scientifically informed perspectives. Which is, of course, precisely the point. It is a mistake to try to resolve that offense, to ease that tension. There is something to learn there; it is the space into which the Holy Spirit speaks.

That snake-on-a-pole makes another appearance in the Hebrew Bible, when King Hezekiah was cleaning up the temple:

He removed the high places, broke down the pillars, and cut down the sacred pole. He broke in pieces the bronze serpent that Moses had made, for until those days the people of Israel had made offerings to it; it was called Nehushtan.(2 Kings 18:4)

It seems that the bronze snake had become more than a reminder of God's presence. It had itself become the object of worship. The people had forgotten the iconic, sacramental identity of the bronze snake. They had forgotten what the bronze snake pointed to. "Nehushtan" just means "a thing made out of brass." 

Rev. Dr. Katie Nix says that "the sin of this story is the belief that the people knew what they needed better than God did." It is always helpful to remember that God is God, and that we are not. And this is especially true during wilderness times.

In times of high anxiety and fear, when the future is uncertain, we rely on tangible reminders of God's presence. We lean into means of grace - prayer, worship, an image to look at or an object to hold, those kinds of things - as a palpable touchpoint that functions sacramentally, reminding us of God's active presence within, among, and around us.

And these objects or actions are so very helpful, but they are just reminders. The reality to which they point is much, much bigger. It is easy to slip into thinking that God isn't present when things are unfamiliar. When we are worshiping in a different sanctuary, or when we are grieving the loss of one dear to us, or when the very pattern of human interaction seems so completely different than it was a decade ago. 

It is in times like those that we cling to the bronze snake up on the pole and forget why Moses made it in the first place. So remember, this Lent, that God is with you always, everywhere, at all times. We may be afraid, anxious, uncertain, and yet the things around us are but nehushtan, and that God is present with us no matter where we are, no matter when it is, and no matter what. 

"I Am the Lord Your God"

The third Sunday in Lent invites us to remember the story.

Exodus 20 is one of the two places in the Bible where we read what are commonly known as "The Ten Commandments," and it is the appointed lectionary text for this week.

In the past I have been asked if I support the posting of "The Ten Commandments" in public places. My answer has always been the same. Unequivocally no. But maybe not for the reason you think.

To be sure, posting "The Ten Commandments" in public places is problematic because the "public" who occupy those places do not all ascribe to the Judeo-Christian tradition, and that should be reason enough. But for me there is another compelling reason to avoid the practice.

Posting "The Ten Commandments" in public places separates them from the story. It relegates them to a mere list of things not to do, rather than a chapter in the story of God's love for God's people in the world.

Writing on Exodus 20, Terrence Fretheim points out that "This covenant is a specific covenant within the already existing covenant with Abraham." The story had already begun, and was entering a new chapter. The beginning of Exodus 20, before the "commandments" themselves, is as important as the rest, and maybe more so:

"Then God spoke all these words, “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery..."

The people are already "God's people" by the time they get to Mount Sinai. The story has already begun. God has already been at work to save the people, to redeem them from slavery in Egypt. In that sense, these "commandments" are not given as a way to earn God's favor. It isn't: "Do these things and God will love you." Rather it is: "God loves you so much and in response you should do these things."

Too often, we approach the commandments of God as if they are video game maneuvers. If we jump up on these platforms in this particular sequence and collect up these specific coins, we will be rewarded by advancement to the next level. But the love of God doesn't work like that. 

We are already in relationship with God. God created us. God has chosen us. God has set us free. And God is here, in our midst. 

That is our story, the story of our relationship with the Lord. But not only ours. It had already begun by the time we show up. And the story will continue long after we are gone. May we remember the story, and live in gratitude for our small part of it.

"Sarah Shall Be Her Name"

"...Sarah shall be her name. I will bless her and also give you a son by her. I will bless her, and she shall give rise to nations; kings of peoples shall come from her.” (Genesis 17:15b-16)

The second Sunday in Lent is an opportunity for transformation. It is an opportunity to rise, a new creation, a phoenix from the ashes.  "Sarah shall be her name." It is a renaming, a simple change to a single word, yet that word is so intimately connected to our identity, to our very being. When someone calls your name, they are calling you. 

And for Sarai, it came after nine decades of life. Life with her husband couldn't have been particularly easy. She had to move from her home and wander around for much of her life. The Bible says she was beautiful. In Egypt, her husband asked her to pretend to be his sister in order to save his own life and Pharaoh took her as his own wife. (This story is not included in Vacation Bible School curricula for some reason.)

And we know that she was unable to have children. One time she devised a plan to ensure that her husband would have descendants; she had him marry Hagar, an enslaved Egyptian woman. It was a whole thing. Suffice it to say it did not end well.

Is it any wonder that after ninety years of such a life, the opportunity for transformation would elicit a chuckle?

And yet, there it is. It is literally never too late. The grace of God is always, always, always at work. Maybe you feel a sense that you are settled, established, maybe you feel like your life is a familiar routine that really isn't all that great but it's what you know so you're stuck with it. Maybe you know someone who feels this way. (Tip: You probably do.)

Maybe you've even come to a point in life where you're not sure who you are any more. You used to know, but little by little you have faded into someone else. It didn't happen all at once but these days when you look at yourself in the mirror there's someone new looking back at you. Someone you barely recognize. Or, maybe you know someone who feels this way. (Tip: You probably do.)

Maya Angelou said, “We may encounter many defeats, but we must not be defeated. That in fact it may be necessary to encounter defeat, so we can know who the hell we are. What can we overcome? What makes us stumble and fall, and somehow miraculously rise and go on?”

"It may be necessary to encounter defeat, so we can know who the hell we are."

Scripture says that "if anyone is in Christ, they are a new creation: everything old has passed away; look, new things have come into being!" The Holy Spirit renews and restores so completely that the process is described as a second birth. And the possibility of being born again is an ever-present gift, there for us, waiting our response.

This Second Sunday in Lent is an opportunity for transformation. The grace of God is an opportunity to hear your name called, as if for the very first time. The grace of God is always working, always calling, always moving. This day is chance to know who you are, to miraculously rise and go on.

"I Have Set My Bow in the Clouds"

 In order to see the rainbow you have to be facing the storm.

8 Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, 9 “As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you 10 and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. 11 I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.” 12 God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: 13 I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. 14 When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, 15 I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh, and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. 16 When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.” 17 God said to Noah, “This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth.”

(Genesis 9:1-17)

The First Sunday of Lent this year comes with a splash of color. “I have set my bow in the clouds.” It is the rainbow, that miracle of physics that happens when light is scattered by water droplets, diversifying according to wavelength, literally bouncing the white light off of the back of each little droplet and sending it back our direction transformed.

For Noah, it is offered as a sign of divine regret. God seems to lament the destruction wrought, and promises it will never happen again. The bow in the clouds is there to remind God (who needs reminding, apparently) of the sacred covenant between all living things and their Creator. 

It’s fitting that, in order to see a rainbow, you have to be facing the storm. Technically speaking, the light source has to be behind you, and the water droplets in front of you. Light shines into the rain, and the rain receives it. Then, thousands … millions of individual droplets take that light and change it, reflect it, and offer it back to us.

As we stand, facing the storm ahead, we know that there is light behind us because we can see that bow in the clouds. The hope, the promise, the assurance of the Spirit - it all comes when we face the storm. 

You may be facing a storm right now. If so, face it! And look for the rainbow. 

You may know someone who is facing a storm right now. If so, shine your light into their storm with words of encouragement and gestures of love and support. Create a rainbow for them.

It is an apt metaphor, because at one time or another each and every one of us has experienced a storm of one kind or another. Charles Tindley’s well known him, “Stand By Me,” names it so powerfully.

When the storms of life are raging, stand by me.

When the world is tossing me like a ship upon the sea,

Thou who rulest wind and water, stand by me.

This year Lent begins with a splash of color, God’s promise in the midst of the storm. A promise that God is there with and for us, cares for us, and will be with us through it all. 

In order to see the rainbow you have to be facing the storm.

Yet Even Now - Ash Wednesday 2024

“Yet even now, says the Lord,

return to me with all your heart,

with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;

     rend your hearts and not your clothing.

Return to the Lord your God,

    for he is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love,

    and relenting from punishment.”

                        (Joel 2:12-13)

Those three words, “Yet even now…”

Joel has just spent eleven verses describing in poetic elegance the “darkness and gloom” of God’s arrival. The day of the Lord is akin to the invasion of a “great and powerful army” whose destructive power is experienced like a wildfire that utterly devastates everything in its path. The passage ends with a haunting question: “Truly the day of the Lord is great, terrible indeed - who can endure it?”

And then … “Yet even now…”

As bad as it gets, God is still there, calling, soothing, comforting. There is a theological puzzle here, though. The same God whose day is “terrible indeed” is here offering grace and mercy. How is this not a divine description of the cycle of abuse?

It is really important to remember that the Bible is inspired by God, not dictated by God. God inspired Joel’s prophecy, and Joel wrote it from his own unique perspective, framed in his own particular view of the world. Joel’s words reflect his experience of and relationship with God.

You and I read a passage like this knowing some things about God. That God is good, and loving, and just. That God offers grace in abundance and life everlasting. When confronted with seemingly contradictory images of God’s identity, what are we to do? Maybe throw one of them out, based on our own comfort level? Maybe leap to the conclusion that the whole thing is fraudulent and throw it all away?

Or maybe hold them in tension, wrestling with the feeling of dissonance that the prophet so deftly illuminates. For me, this is the best approach. And it all hangs on those three remarkable words: “Yet even now.”

This Season of Lent begins in a broken and hurting world. War ravages innocent people with relentless brutality. Political figures demean and insult their opponents. Violence seems to be the rule rather than the exception. The climate continues its inexorable slide toward disaster. And on and on. No wonder so many people are anxious, angry, and flat-out exhausted.

In the midst of all that, the prophet offers this hopeful word. “Yet even now, return to God. Yet even now, center on the divine within, among, and around us. Yet even now, even when anxiety cripples you and anger rages red and exhaustion drains every bit of energy from your body … yet even now, God is there. Gracious. Merciful. Slow to anger. And abounding in steadfast love.

Yet even now.

"The Direction of the Church"

The church staff of the congregation I serve hears a lot of feedback, as do I. By far, the two most common themes in this feedback are: 

“I do not like the direction the church is moving.”

and

“I like the direction the church is moving but it is not moving fast enough.”

For brevity’s sake, I will summarize the two positions as “Please Stop” and “Go Faster.”

So it goes.

It is noteworthy that we hardly ever hear from people who say “I like the direction the church is moving and am perfectly content with the pace at which it is moving there.”

So it goes.

I have a bit of advice for you, if you’d hear me. When you are offering feedback about “the direction the church is moving,” whether that feedback is offered to me, to a church staff member, to another pastor, or to anyone, please be specific. Please say exactly what you mean by “the direction the church is moving.”

For the record, here’s what I mean when I say “the direction the church is moving.” I mean “closer to God.”

I mean in the direction of love. I mean along the way of sanctification. I mean our cooperation with God’s grace that draws us ever closer to being perfected in love in this lifetime. I mean towards fuller inclusion. I mean Exodus, liberation, a direction that takes us toward the Promised Land. I mean drawing the circle wider, ever wider. I mean along the arc of the moral universe, bending inexorably toward justice. I mean the direction of the all-encompassing Gospel of Jesus Christ. I mean outward into the world as ambassadors of reconciliation. When I say “the direction the church is moving” I mean the direction of the Holy Spirit, discerned and embodied in an intentional community of people, all of whom are just trying to do the best we can with what we’ve got.

And if I am serious about moving that direction, I believe that any and all forms of evil, injustice, and oppression must be named so that they can be removed from the way. That’s hard to say, because it includes removing the obstacles that exist within me, also.

So, whether you are a “please stop” person or a “go faster” person, I hope you will be very specific the next time you talk with someone about “the direction the church is moving.” And specifically, if you are in the “please stop” camp and the “direction” you are referring to means working to include more people more fully in the life of the church, please be very specific about what you believe the consequences of that work will be.

Go deeper than just, “I don’t like this.” Go deeper than just, “It breaks the denomination’s rules.” Say out loud what you believe will happen if your beloved sibling in Christ who happens to be gay is allowed to get married in your church. Say out loud what you believe the theological implications are if your dear neighbor whom you love and who is called to ordination and who also happens to be gay is allowed to be ordained.

Be specific. If you really think it’s wrong, claim it. Tell me exactly why you believe that working to truly extend God’s love and grace to all people, rather than just sitting around and talking about it all the time, is not the right direction for the church to go.

I am not being sarcastic. It sounds kind of like I am, but I’m really not. I truly value all perspectives. And if you have a perspective to share, I am inviting you to share it with me. “Please stop” or “go faster,” either one. Don’t make a vague reference to “the direction of the church.” Tell me. I want to listen. I promise I will hear you. I may not change my mind about “the direction of the church” or the pace at which we are moving, but I promise I will hear you.

"New" Year?

To turn a page on a calendar from one year to the next is often an act of hopefulness. Resolutions are made, slates are cleaned, and new beginnings are … begun. It is an opportunity, albeit an arbitrary one, to breathe deeply and recenter ourselves for what lies ahead.

This year, to turn the page on 2020 and into 2021 feels nothing short of triumphant. We made it! We are through with this most weird and miserable of years!

Of course as we do so, we have to be mindful of those who cannot make this claim. There is something rather myopic about celebrating “making it through” a year in which 1.8 million people (and counting) died in a global pandemic. There is a certain sensitivity required of us this year, a certain empathy. 

So this year we celebrate and lament simultaneously. “New Year’s Eve” 2020 includes both grief and relief. We are able to feel more than one thing at the same time, and this year we feel them all.

And this year, we are more aware of the mundane truth of this “New Year” celebration. Namely, that there is nothing magical about it. There is nothing contained in the January 2021 page of our calendars that will miraculously erase our struggles.

Nevertheless, we resolve. We persist. We recenter and take another step. Even though we know it is just an arbitrary number on a calendar page, we embrace the opportunity to become something more. Alfred Lord Tennyson said, “Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, ‘It will be happier.’”

It is a weird feeling, this knowing and hoping anyway. At times we pendulum swing toward one or the other, alternately drifting toward despair then becoming nearly giddy in the next moment. Weird, isn't it? So it goes.

And so we turn the page. Happy new year everyone! Embrace the relief and the grief, the hoping and the knowing. Let’s figure out what the next step is, and take it together.

Tendrils: A Foster Care Transition

Some of the them work their way more deeply into your heart than others.

Which means that when they leave, it hurts that much more. It is an extraction. 

Tendrils have entangled and pulling them apart is work. In botany, a tendril is a specialized stem or leaf shaped like a long thread that a plant uses for support and attachment, generally by twining around suitable hosts. These hosts are found by touch.

In foster care, it is much the same. By twining around suitable hosts. Used for support and attachment. Very often found by touch.

And then they need to move on, to be transplanted in new soil, and the tendrils have to be removed from the hosts. Some of them release gently. But some of them don't. They're stubborn; they hang on. Some of them rip off and remain. Still connected to the host. Dangling.

Baby C, there are so many tendrils.

We met you in the hospital, where you had spent the first two months of your life. Such a little chubbers. Cheeks for days. Fluffy brown hair. Bright, happy eyes. Your nurses had long since fallen in love with you, and we very quickly followed suit.

We watched you grow through all the "year one" stages. From a bottle, to baby food, to solids. From random movements of your arms and legs, to rolling yourself over, to crawling, to toddling around like a pro. Your first smile. Your first belly laughs. The first time you started mimicking our voices. The words you were learning: "What?!" "Ball." "Gabe!"

You wanted to be so fierce, with that little growl. (You were not fierce.) Sometimes you would sit at the table and just ... yell. No reason. Just yell. You would often grab a single piece of food from your tray, throw it carelessly onto the floor, and then grab another piece and eat it. Again, why?

You were learning to throw the ball, but every time you tried to throw it, it ended up somewhere behind you, which really cracked us up. One of your best moves was your "double take" look, looking away and quickly turning back with a gleam in your eye and a little smile on your mouth.

Speaking of smiles, you smile with your entire face. It is the most amazing smile ever in the history of smiles. When people would see you smile, it just makes them happy, and we smile with you. Don't lose that, C. That quality will come in handy.

You cried when you were sleepy or when you needed changing. And that was pretty much it. I mean, you got a little crabby after dinner but we took care of that by stripping you down to you diaper, which tended to keep you happy until bedtime.

And when we would rock you to sleep, you had a habit of reaching up your little hand and touching our faces, your curious fingers exploring mouth, chin, cheeks.

Tendrils. Twining for support and attachment. 

Around whose heart though? Who is the trellis here?

And now, you are gone. We were careful with you; we tried to be gentle with your fragility during the process. Tried to protect the roots, the leaves, the tiny tendrils. We think the family you are with now (your family, after all) will be good soil in which you are going to take root and grow into ...

Into what? 

We might be lucky enough to see. To be a part of your life in a new way and watch you keep growing and learning and becoming. To see how you will blossom. Maybe. It's just that whether that happens or not is not really up to us. So maybe. 

All we know for sure is that we did our best. We loved you as best we knew how. We still do. And you are loved by so many people, C. So, so very many people. What a lucky kid you are, to have so many people who love you so much!

A foster family's job is to help a kid learn how to attach. And having learned that skill, they will then be able to attach more easily to the people in their forever family when they transition. 

In other words, once they've figured out how to grow tendrils, to touch another with tender dependence, to find a suitable host to twine around for support, taking root in new soil will be much easier for them. 

It's just that some of them work their way further into your heart than others do. And Baby C, you were in deep. 

I love you Lito. I think you are neat-o.

Oh, inconvenient heart. So quickly filled. So easily broken.

The Good Samaritan, Covid-19 Edition

But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he contracted an illness that left him with a compromised immune system.

“Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he wore no mask and did not maintain six feet of distance. ‘I’m not sick,’ he thought, since he clearly had no symptoms, ‘So there’s really no need.’

“So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, wore no mask and did not maintain six feet of distance. ‘Since I am free to choose how to live my life, I can do as I please,’ he said.

“But a Samaritan while traveling with a mask on did not come near him; and when he saw him, he greeted him with a wave from a safe distance. He asked how the man was feeling, and if the man needed anything. Then he did not put him on his own animal since that would have violated distancing guidelines, but rather walked along the road with him a while, always staying a minimum of six feet away.

“The next day he took out two denarii, donated them to Doctors Without Borders, and said, ‘Thank you for taking care of so many people; and when I come back, I will donate whatever more I possibly can.’

“Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”

He said, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

The Comfort of Chaos

“...the earth was a formless void…”

This phrase, in the well-known first verses of the Bible, engages the imagination, and is worth a pause for contemplation. We may want to quickly rush to the part where God turns on the light, but maybe it’s okay for us to linger in the liminal space of the darkness that covers the face of the deep.

Many of us are “fixers;” we want to identify the problem, develop a plan to correct it, implement the plan, and move on. A “formless void” needs to be formed, it needs to be filled in, it needs structure and substance. Nature abhors a vacuum, right?

Our impatience is a product of our sinfulness. We want things done on our time, in our way, by our own calculations. We forget that we are we and God is God. 

This impatience turns us into our selves by prioritizing our own impulses and thereby away from one another. When we turn away from our neighbors, we fall short of the vision God has for this world, that we love one another as Christ loves us. When we turn away from our neighbors, we are unable to hear them. When we turn away from the world around us, we lose sight of the Gospel.

When things feel particularly chaotic, as they do these days, I take comfort in these first lines from Genesis. “The earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.” The comfort comes from the next phrase: “...while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.”

In the formless void, the Holy Spirit sweeps. Within the impenetrable darkness, the Holy Spirit broods. In the chaos of the season, the Holy Spirit hovers among us, within us, and in between us. Therein lies our hope. We are in a liminal space. We are in a wilderness season. A time of uncertainty and weirdness. And we may be in a hurry for someone to just turn on the light so we can get out of this mess. 

To be sure, we must not sit passively, but rather we must actively engage the liminal space of this moment. We must be fully present to the formless void. We have to become fully aware of the darkness. We need to look into the face of the deep in order to see the sweeping presence of the Holy Spirit.

Tipping Into Grace

Things feel precarious these days.

It is the end of May, 2020, and we have been living with a global pandemic for three months now. Even longer, actually. It feels to me like we are at a tipping point. It feels to me like what happens in the next few days and weeks is going to set the next few months in motion, and maybe years. And it feels to me that it could tip either way.

Put simply, we will either tip into fear and frustration, solidifying the divisions among us, or we will tip into love and grace, drawing us closer together than we have ever been.

Already angry protestors carry automatic weapons to capitol buildings to threaten government officials. Frustrated customers berate store clerks trying to enforce simple, easy to follow rules. A stylist with Covid symptoms shows up to work with dozens of clients, and when the story breaks she receives death threats. And decisions that should be guided by reason and science are guided by political party affiliation. And so it goes.

It feels precarious, like we are tipping toward fear, anger, and divisiveness. I just hope it isn’t too late for us to tip back the other way.

I get the idea we’re feeling it personally, as well. The weight of these three months is grinding us down. We are sad, tired, and grouchy. It is hard to focus. Our relationships are strained. Our hearts are heavy and a weariness has settled into our bones. And so just at the moment we as a society are hanging at this precarious tipping point, we lack the personal fortitude to do anything about it but succumb.

It’s no wonder though, is it? The pressure cooker of this pandemic has slowly increased over time, squeezing our anxiety until we have reached a point where it either has to be released or it will explode. Many of us, feeling this pressure build up, are rushing to restaurants and bars and gyms, foregoing masks and physical distancing guidelines. Or expressing caustic bitterness on social media with no empathy or understanding whatsoever. Or eating too much unhealthy food. Or drinking too much. Or… pick your poison.

It is as if we just need a pressure release, and we don’t care how unhealthy it is.

My prayer is that we will figure out a way to tip into love and grace, and become closer over these next few weeks than we ever have before. And it will take intentionality, cooperation, and determination to do so. It will take honesty and good communication and a level of vulnerability not many of us are naturally comfortable with. It will take trust, lots and lots of trust.

And most of all, it will take the Holy Spirit. It will take us surrendering ourselves to God’s desires and yielding our own wills to the divine. It will take a renewal of our commitment to our calling to be the church.

I refuse to think that it is too late, that we have overbalanced into fear and anger with no hope of correcting things. I continue to hold on to faith in the human capacity for love, which is far greater than we sometimes imagine. I continue to hold on to faith in God’s capacity to redeem and reconcile. This is a precarious moment, a tipping point. With God’s help, may we choose wisely, and discover ourselves tipping into grace.

(And yes, this song is on my mind a lot these days.)

Pandemic Pedagogy

Things I have learned during the Season of Weirdness:

1 - We can change. The idea that the church is incapable of change is a myth. Suffice it to say that myth is thoroughly busted.

2 - It is all us. People are the church, not the building or the pastors or the staff or the membership roll or the budget or the policies, processes, and procedures. The church is us and there’s no them. Every congregation is now and forevermore a “multisite” congregation.

3 - Belonging is more important than believing. Non-essential beliefs, like non-essential activities, have faded into near obscurity. For the past six weeks, the church has been all and only about “God is with you no matter where you are” and “God is love” and “Love your neighbor as yourself” and other such foundational truths. Isn’t it interesting that in a time during which the term “essential” has become so prominent, the “essential” doctrines of the church have also?

4 - We need each other. The categorizing labels of the church are all but meaningless any more. The lines separating “Evangelical” and “Social Justice” and “Liturgical” and even “Conservative” and “Progressive” have become permeable. Individual people and congregations will still lean into a particular perspective, but those who lean into another are no longer demonized. We have seen just how interconnected we are, and it will change how we interact.

5 - Who we are is more important than what we do. It has been tricky to “do what we do” as the church, and working to figure all that out has given us pause to consider why we do all the stuff we do in the first place. Asking the “why” question leads us inevitably to finding out who we are. It peels away the layers of irrelevance and reminds us of what truly matters at the core of our identity.

I cannot help but think that the church will emerge from this “Season of Weirdness” in a better place. “Stay at home” orders that limit gathering sizes, define essential activities, and establish personal spacing minimums have compelled the church to do some deep self examination. I am hopeful that we will have learned a few things in the process.