"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. 

A Surreal Malevolence

There is a surreal malevolence at work in the world, whose goal is only chaos.

This surreal malevolence cares not for nation, corporation, denomination, family, or tribe. This surreal malevolence uses as its tools anything and everything it can get its corrosive claws on - partisan politics, news outlets, social media - whatever. Even (and especially) those things we would like to think of a good and nice and maybe even fun.

Further, the surreal malevolence does not care who gets elected or is legally able to be married or kneels for their flag (or not) or makes a profit or goes to bed hungry or wins the war. And as long as we are all out of sorts, mad at one another, and anxious, the surreal malevolence is satisfied.

Those who engage in a particular religious worldview know the surreal malevolence as Satan, the Devil, the Tempter, and a dozen other names. He is called Screwtape and Wormwood. She is known as demon or darkness or death. Their name is Legion.

Succumbing to the surreal malevolence is a pandemic, with global proportions. Evidence is ample, recorded on handheld devices and posted to YouTube in a daily deluge. Chaos. Anxiety. Unrest. Lifelong friends now unable to speak. Family members suspicious of one another, openly hostile. Hatred on full, public display. Once orderly systems rife with confusion.

And the surreal malevolence under the surface is relentless, uncaring, unfeeling; laying waste to empathy, respect, humility, integrity, compassion, honesty, common sense, all that once was assumed, now rotting away.

And even so, God whispers, “Do not be afraid.”

Yes indeed, “Fear not.” For there is another force at work in the world. A force more powerful by far. And that force is not only capable of defeating the surreal malevolence, it is quite likely the only thing that can.

To put it into words, that force is known as “true love.”

There is no fear in love, for perfect love casts out fear. And you shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free. True love - a deep, bold love that is brutal in its honesty and equally brutal in its graciousness. A love that insists on authenticity and vulnerability. A love that is at the same time both pliable and unyielding. A love that is at the same time naked and wearing the full armor of God. A love that is the paradox of the deepest pain and the most ecstatic joy.

True love. Love that gazes into your eyes and makes your heart flutter. Love that brings a smile to your lips. Love that embraces without awkwardness, and also knows when to walk away. Love that will calm the storm, but can rock the boat when necessary. True. Love.

To live our lives fully by the tenets of true love is terrifying. It requires us to do things like turn the other cheek and walk the extra mile and give not only our coat but our shirt as well and lay down our life for someone else. It is inherently risky. Not metaphorically risky, actually physically risky to your comfort, your health, your safety. It is unabashedly selfless. It is not for the faint of heart.

To put it simply, resisting the surreal malevolence at work in the world requires us to announce, advocate for, and embody true love. Everything we do, everything we say, even everything we think about, all must come from one source, to the exclusion of any other.

In so doing, we exhume the seeds of chaos and sow instead seeds of grace and peace. The work will require us to lay aside our apathy, our passivity, and our fear. The tools for this work are compassion, empathy, and justice. The harvest may be a long time coming, but it will be plentiful. If we will be patient and work with diligence, we will feast.

I can feel in my guts when I am beginning to succumb to the surreal malevolence. It raises my blood pressure and gives me heartburn. I’m sure you know your own warning signs, you are aware. Do not collapse. Breathe deeply. Take a drink. Back off. Remember what you need, what you have, what you know.

And then re-enter the moment, re-centered on true love. Re-enter re-centered. And get back to work.

Yes, you have enemies; You also have grace.

For many people, it’s easy to say, “I do not have any enemies” without thinking too hard about it. We tend to think of “enemies” in geopolitical rather than in personal terms. I get that.

However, when I am too quick to dismiss the idea that I have enemies, it alters my reading of the 23rd Psalm, in which God “prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” If I have no enemies, then does God not prepare the table? Who are these “enemies” to which the Psalmist refers?

The word is not uncommon, appearing over a dozen times in the Psalms. It is one of the terms used to describe one of the two groups of people in the Psalms: the “righteous” and the “wicked.” Broadly speaking, the “righteous” are those whose relationship with God is characterized by abiding trust and utter dependence. The “wicked” (or “enemies”) are those who oppose God’s call to completely trust God and depend upon divine grace.

And so we might paraphrase Psalm 23:5 this way - “You keep providing grace for me, right when I need it the most.” For it is precisely in the presence of “enemies,” meaning those things that keep us from experiencing the fullness of a relationship with God, that we need grace the most.

God doesn’t give up on us. Ever. And God especially doesn’t give up on us when we need grace the most. In fact that’s when God doubles down on grace, pouring it out in abundance.

Someone reading this right now may very well feel like God has given up on you. It’s not true. I promise. And because God hasn’t and won’t give up on you, I won’t either. I promise. God is preparing a table before you, right in the presence of your enemies, right when you need it the most. And I would love to join you for dinner!

Christmas Eve

Christmas has come, and it feels familiar.

Comfortable arrival at a holy night.

Mission accomplished, job well done,

we sang the songs, we lit the lights.

Yes, familiar. But before we get settled

the sages may yet have a sermon, a song,

a word of caution. No, not to prolong

the moment, but to right the wrong.

Is there an announcement we need to hear?

The glory of God caused the shepherds to fear,

and perhaps the good news should arrest our plans.

The birth of a child to a woman and man

just like you and me … magnificently ordinary.

Christmas has come, and it feels familiar.

But maybe it shouldn't. Maybe there’s more

than traditions renewed and expectations met.

Maybe there’s music yet to be written.

Maybe there’s a story still being told.

Maybe there are terrified shepherds shivering still,

waiting to hear the news, needing to know

Jesus.

There’s a song in the air, and that song is Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us.

We welcome you, long-expected Jesus. We greet your arrival with familiar sights and smells and flavors and sounds. Familiar ... and yet new every year. There is a song in the air, both familiar and new, a song that is and was and ever shall be, Amen.

Advent - Week 4

We have come so far; we’re almost there.

If we could only reach out, stretch our arm

a bit more, into the dark, into the air

where a song is spinning, “Repent! Prepare!”

John interrupts, in his coarse camel hair,

“Who warned you, snakes? The ax is sharp,

the fire is hot. Fruitless? Ruthless.

God is trimming trees today. On guard!”

But we have come so far, and we’re almost there.

We hear a prophet’s echo in Mary’s delivery,

“Emmanuel. That woman’s child will be

God with us.” God. With. Us. Impossibility!

Unimaginable intensity.

So yes. Reach and stretch, as far as you can.

God is coming, and now arrives, alive,

To demonstrate, to teach, to embody, to be

the presence of intense, impossible, unconditional

love.

There is a song in the air, and that song is called love.

We wait for you, long-expected Jesus. We prepare for your arrival with familiar sights and smells and flavors and sounds. Familiar ... and yet new every year. There is a song in the air, both familiar and new, a song that is and was and ever shall be, Amen.

Advent - Week Three

It is closer, and yet still so far away.

Christmas Day sits on horizon’s hill

like a sunrise disguise, not quite yet shining

into the valley, but you can see that it will.

And still, Zechariah sings about light

dawning upon the darkest corners of life,

chasing shadows of death, guiding our way

into the day, into the goodness, into the birth

of Jesus.

It is closer (but still far away), and prophets promise

Eyes opened, ears unplugged, voices lifted,

Impossible things possible, even probable,

Light increasing and definitely unstoppable

now as the darkness retreats in its unilluminated shame.

Yes, the light is coming. Yes, look and see.

The light reflected, unexpected

In our words and deeds, in you and me.

Yes, the sun is rising, the Light of all lights

Banishes darkness forever, good news of the greatest

joy.

There is a song in the air, and that song is called joy.

We wait for you, long-expected Jesus. We prepare for your arrival with familiar sights and smells and flavors and sounds. Familiar ... and yet new every year. There is a song in the air, both familiar and new, a song that is and was and ever shall be, Amen.

Advent - Week Two

The season is in full swing, all lights and sounds,

all scenery and songs. “The greenery belongs

in the hall, not on the railing. This goes here

and that over there, not where it is. That’s wrong.”

But my soul longs ... my soul ... it longs

to magnify with Mary, to glorify the Lord.

I want to rejoice in the Mighty One, Holy One

to find a place for me. Not the tree, not the bells,

not the L.E.D. molded plastic manger. … Me.

The season is in full swing, and prophets call,

“Leopard and lamb, coyote and cow. And a child over all.”

And the words illuminate but dimly, dimly

The impending night, gathering still.

Do we even hear? Do we truly see?

Or are eyes and ears jaded by faded familiar

that has become background, unworthy of acclaim?

Into the noise, the silent savior comes, once more

expanding understanding and bringing abiding

peace.

There is a song in the air, and that song is called peace.

We wait for you, long-expected Jesus. We prepare for your arrival with familiar sights and smells and flavors and sounds. Familiar ... and yet new every year. There is a song in the air, both familiar and new, a song that is and was and ever shall be, Amen.

Advent - Week One

Advent begins, and it feels familiar.

Comfortable. Traditions renewed.

Familiar garland. Familiar lights.

Familiar songs. Familiar food.

Every year, a sacred season

begins as autumn fades

and winter peeks around into

shortening, darkening days.

Advent begins, and prophets call, “Swords

into shovels! Spears into billhooks!”

And the words flicker into our ears

like a single candle lit against

the oncoming darkness of our hopes and fears.

Every year, the expectations of our

deepest and truest selves

are met, exceeded, extended, transcended

beyond earthly standards and big box shelves

into the music of God,

made known in humility, fragility, infinite capability

and hope.

There is a song in the air, and that song is called hope.

We wait for you, long-expected Jesus. We prepare for your arrival with familiar sights and smells and flavors and sounds. Familiar ... and yet new every year. There is a song in the air, both familiar and new, a song that is and was and ever shall be, Amen.

There's a Song in the Air

“Expect the unexpected.” Have you heard that phrase before? It is ironically common these days, such that we almost expect to hear it uttered in certain surprising circumstances. Which of course, defeats its purpose entirely.

This week we are entering a season rich with traditions. Advent, the four weeks of preparation before the twelve days of the Christmas season begin, is a time during which much is deeply familiar. Heirloom decorations are unpacked, plans for annual gatherings of family and friends are made, and greenery and lights are hung on nails that were driven in years ago.

And of course, the familiar music of the season begins.

No other season has music connected to it quite like this one does. Other holidays have musical associations, but the songs of the Christmas season are deeply imprinted on our hearts. Hearing a favorite Christmas song elicits nostalgia, stirs emotions, and elevates our demeanor.

I really enjoy hearing a familiar song in a new and creative arrangement. It’s “tradition with a twist,” a well-known song with a new harmonization or a well-done countermelody or done in a different style than is usually heard. A good new arrangement of a traditional Christmas song manages to connect to the memories of the past while at the same time being fresh and engaging in the present.

Songs play a significant role in Luke’s version of the birth of Jesus. Mary, Zechariah, John, and Simeon, not to mention the angels themselves, all sing songs of praise and worship as a part of Luke’s account. During Advent at Campbell UMC, we are going to use these songs as our Scriptural focus for our worship services, and maybe by doing so, hear the story in a brand new way. In other words, “expect the unexpected!”

“There’s a Song in the Air!” during Advent this year, and all are welcome to sing along!

Why Do We Do What We Do?

What matters more - what you do or why you do it?

C.S. Lewis writes about this question in his book “Mere Christianity.” He thinks that motivation matters. For example, if a person takes your seat on the train to be rude, that’s different than if a person takes your seat on the train because they didn’t know it was your seat. We would be inclined to be angry at person number one, and more understanding of person number two, even though they did exactly the same thing. Why would respond differently? Because of the difference in their motivations.

And if we expand that idea to apply to congregations, we might ask a similar question. Congregations do things; we do ministry - hospitality, worship, service, generosity, faith formation - and if we are honest with ourselves, sometimes the things we do become more important than the reasons to do them.

When we forget our reasons for doing what we do, our actions become empty and shallow. The things we do may have the very same result, but purpose begins to deteriorate. And when we do increasingly meaningless things, even if the results are very similar, our energy level decreases and we begin to burn out. Ultimately, we either stop doing them altogether, or do them begrudgingly and with a chip on our shoulder.

But it is possible to renew purpose, to reclaim the meaning behind our actions. We need to remember the “why” of our Christian discipleship. And having remembered and reaffirmed this “why,” suddenly we find our actions infused with meaning, purpose, and energy again. We may even be doing the very same things we’ve always done, but now they are a joy.

And so yes, what we do matters. But I think knowing why we do it may matter even more.

Everyone's An Angel?

God is still sending messages. God has spoken to human beings through all of history, and God is still speaking today.

The law was a message from God, sent through Moses. God spoke through the prophets of old, calling the nation to live worthy lives. God sent messages through the heavenly beings called angels, whose very name means “messengers.”

And ultimately, God embodied the message in Jesus. Jesus is the incarnate Word of God, the most complete expression of God’s message to the world. And after his resurrection, God sent the Holy Spirit to dwell in our midst, the ongoing presence of God with us even now.

And so, considering God’s ultimate expression in Jesus, considering God’s ongoing, unmediated presence with us .... are there angels any more? If God can speak to us directly in the Holy Spirit, what use is there for angels? Do they even exist?

Now some will answer, “Yes, absolutely. I know because I have seen for myself.” Others will say, “No way. Angels are myths.”

Still others will reply, “Maybe so, maybe not. I’m not really sure. Angels haven’t been a part of my experience, so I can’t say one way or the other.”

Wherever we personally fall on that spectrum, scripture does make one thing clear to all of us: we are to treat people as if each one is an angel (Hebrews 13:1-2). How would it change the way you looked at others if you thought to yourself, “What if he has been sent by God?” or “What if she has a message for me that God need me to hear?”

God is still sending messages, and it could come from ANYONE! There are definitely “Angels All Around.”

Life is Too Short ...

Complete this sentence: “Life is too short to … “

How did you finish it? “ … hold a grudge?” “... be boring?” “... worry?” Or maybe something practical, like “...drink bad coffee?”

The Beatles think that “life is very short, and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friends.” That’s a line from their 1965 #1 hit, “We Can Work It Out.”

What if we could all adopt that attitude? How would the world change if more people believed that life is just too short to fuss and fight with one another?

Or, as the apostle Paul might put it, what if more people would “lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

Actually it isn’t that Paul “might” put it that way. It’s that he DID. That’s in the book of Ephesians, right at the beginning of chapter 4.

A life “worthy of the calling” of Christ is much too short “for fussing and fighting, my friends!”

Why does it seem to be so difficult for people to avoid animosity? Maybe it is because we think “unity” means the same thing as “uniformity,” and that means if we’re not in lock-step agreement with one another, we must be bitter enemies?

I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that life is far too short to think that way. I’d rather work it out. Life is very short; surely we can work it out!

My One Idea - What's Yours?

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away … let’s just say for the sake of the story …

There was this technology that, when applied, would remove everything that a person believed, except for one single idea. All the complications and clutter of belief and dogma and doctrine and feelings and thoughts … just *poof* … gone. And only one idea would remain.

That solitary idea would be the center, the core, the pillar on which all the rest were constructed. The remaining idea would be the idea that served as the foundation of the house. It would be the heart of hearts of everything you believe to be true.

Got it? Do you see the concept? (Never mind how would it work, just play the game, okay?)

What would yours be?

What is your core idea? What is your single central belief on which all the rest are built? What’s the one idea that, if everything else were wiped away, you would hold on to with all your strength?

(Yes, just one. Again, just play the game!)

Please post your answer in the comment section, on Facebook, or on Twitter. I’m curious to read the responses.

Mine would be: Everybody matters. That would be My One Idea.

If everything else were taken away, I would cling to the idea that every single person is worth something. Not because of what they do or might do in the future, but simply because they exist. They matter because they are.

No matter your age or gender or wealth or health or race or religion or language or culture or nationality or anything else … YOU ARE IMPORTANT. For me, everything else builds upon that idea.

And that means that whenever that idea is challenged, I rise to defend it. Providing foster care, working for marriage equality, helping someone pay for a motel room, confronting racism, or just being nice to someone – it all comes back to believing that people matter. It shapes what I believe about God, who I believe Jesus is, how I identify the Holy Spirit, how I read scripture, what I think the church is about, and just about everything else.

So, I hope you’ll engage this little thought experiment with me. Here come the aliens with their belief-erasing devices! They have you in their sights! And … ZAP. All but one of your beliefs has just been eradicated.

What’s left?

The Altar of Struggle

Arguably the most notorious altar Abraham built was the one upon which he nearly sacrificed his son Isaac. To tell you the truth, I’d rather this altar was omitted from Scripture altogether. The story sure would be a lot easier to read.

But it’s in there. And since it’s in there, we’d best give it a go. I mean, it may be a struggle - but just because something involves struggle doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t do it, right? Especially if that “something” is our reading of God’s Holy Word.

In fact, the struggle itself can be an altar. Struggle can be sacred space. Often times our struggles are the moments in which God is most fully present with us, strengthening us, guiding us, helping us get through one moment at a time.

Frederick Douglass said, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” Indeed if everything comes easily to us, we tend to become complacent, lethargic, and apathetic. We expect to grow without doing the work that leads to growth.

I’m sure that Abraham struggled as he walked with Isaac to the place that infamous altar would be built; he would not have been human if he had not. And in that struggle, he grew even closer to God.

I’m sure that you have struggled in your walk of faith; I assure you that I have. And in that struggle, we grow closer to God, and closer to becoming the people God wants us to be.

F**k You, Pain: Thoughts on Robin Williams, Michael Brown, etc ...

Note: There are cuss words in this article. This article has been rated PG by me, just so you're aware.

I want to think about how funny Robin Williams was. All in all, I’d rather not reflect on the pain that must have led him to take his own life.

There’s a human tendency to deflect from that which is just too painful to dwell upon. We are experts at distraction.

I can scroll through Youtube videos of Robin Williams’ funniest moments all day long and laugh and laugh and laugh. And it saves me from imagining the scene described in the coroner’s report.

There’s a similar thing happening around the death of Michael Brown. I can watch coverage of marches and read reports of violence and looting in Ferguson, clicking my tongue and shaking my head and muttering, “Shame, shame, shame.” And it saves me from reflecting on the reality of a human life taken too soon, the pain of parents, family, and friends.

We do it all the time. In Gaza, I can explore the geo-political implications of a two-state solution and read about the history of Islam … so I won’t have to think about children dying when bombs fall on school buildings. In Ukraine, I can bad mouth Putin all day, which of course keeps me from thinking about planes filled with people being shot out of the sky. On the border, if I grandstand and play the political game enough, I don’t have to acknowledge that they are real live children who are probably really scared and just want someone to take care of them. And so it goes.

Are we so afraid of pain? Must we always retreat, escape, withdraw?

In a conversation with a friend recently, I remarked that our prayer life would be much more vivid if cuss words were allowed.

What if I could stand before the congregation, lift my middle fingers to the ceiling, and on behalf of the people just shout out “God Damn It!” at the top of my lungs? Or if I could lament in prayer with a guy whose life has gone to shit and actually say, “Dear God, Joe’s life has really gone to shit.” What if I could hit pain right in the face with a liturgically appropriate “Fuck you!”

We should not be afraid of pain and seek distraction from it. Pain is real. Pain reminds you you are alive. Pain doesn’t go away if you ignore it – it festers. Pain needs to be cussed at. Pain needs to be grabbed by the throat and shaken. Pain needs to be crushed.

And please hear this: Pain needs to be shared. “I don’t want to be a burden.” Never mind that, you can’t kick pain’s ass all by yourself, fool. You need me. “But it’s not your …” No, it isn’t. But some day I’m going to need you to help me with my pain, so the opportunity for payback’s coming.

I’m not talking about momentary respite. Taking an emotional Tylenol to relieve the symptom is fine. Watch a movie, listen to a song, take a walk … all good. When you do this, you are saying, “This really hurts and I just need a break.” No, I’m talking about refusing to acknowledge the pain at all, pretending it’s not there, trying to trick yourself that you are “Just fine” when in reality, you are not.

 “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast…” (Psalm 22:14)

There’s a lot of pain in the atmosphere these days. Please, let’s not yield power to our pain by pretending it isn’t there. Drag it up to the surface. Express it. Reveal it. Cry a lot. Cuss in your prayers. Scream and shout as necessary. Share it with someone, so that it gets scared out into the open, flushed from hiding.

When pain is uncovered it is weaker, smaller, less scary. And it becomes oh so much easier to crush.

Gentleness and Joy

Images of horrific, gratuitous violence and suffering permeate our world. At the same time, images of inane, “anything goes” euphoria suck our collective attention spans. It is almost as if we feel like we need to counter the negative stuff all around us with equally extreme ecstasy in order to balance it out.

There is a more excellent way.

The “church’s marching orders” listed in Galatians 5 include “gentleness” and “joy.” The two ideas intertwine quite well, for joy is not a shallow, chipper glee but rather a deep, abiding gentle satisfaction of the soul.

For example, consider sports. I am a fanatic of the Kansas City Royals. (You probably didn’t know that about me; I try to keep it a secret.) Rooting for the Royals is fun this year. It can bring a smile to my lips and a cheer to my throat. It brings me glee, but it does not bring me joy.

Playing with our two-year-old so that he gets to giggling uncontrollably with his big belly laugh, dimples on full display, eyes twinkling … now THAT brings me joy. Watching our daughter perform on stage; listening to our son describe the world he is creating in his imagination; hearing my wife sing … joy, joy, joy!

Experiencing the grace of God made known through the selfless love of others ... JOY!

The way to counteract the horrific suffering and violence that permeates the world is not via shallow, frivolous escape into silliness. Rather, the way is Christ’s way. The way is Christ. Christ who calls, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Gentless. Joy. Forward, march!

Called

You might call it the call that started it all - the call of Abram. He would become known as Abraham, which means in Hebrew, “The Father of a Multitude.” In fact his story is a part of several different world religions, including Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and Baha’i.

Into this one life, which was by all accounts a rather ordinary one, God spoke. God called, and Abram heard. The call was to go to the place God was sending him. God gave no further detail than that.

“Go, Abram. Pick yourself and your family up from where you are now and go to where you will be when you get there.”

God’s portion of this call would be to bless Abram, make his name great, and through him extend the blessing to all the families of the earth. God wasn't very clear on the details at this point, either.

“I will bless you, and through you, bless the world.”

It was so fuzzy. No flowcharts. No five year plan. No specific, measurable, attainable goals, much less any means for reporting them to the conference office. Just a call to go, and a promise to bless.

And you know what the most extraordinary thing is? This: “So Abram went, as the Lord had told him.”

The call that started it all was a call to trust, to humility, to a faith that had to be at peace with uncertainty. Abram followed without knowing the details, or even the desired outcomes. He was called, and he went.

An ordinary person, an extraordinary life. The call was, “Go.” And Abram went.

The Mystery of Death

I have prayed the prayer
literally hundreds of times
and I will pray it hundreds more.

“Give to us now your grace, that as
we shrink before the mystery of death,
we may see the light of eternity.”

We shrink.
Before the mystery.
Of death.

We shrink. God grows.

We are finite.
God is eternal.

Is it only as we shrink
that we gain the perspective
which allows us to see
the flicker of eternal light?

We shrink. The mystery.
Death.