Tuesday, December 14, 2021

Outlandish Virtue: What Would You Name Yourself If You Were a Quaker?



In Diana Gabaldon's latest novel in the Outlander series, Go Tell the Bees That I am Gone, the Fraser family attends a Quaker meeting. There, they discuss the kinds of names Quakers choose for their children--names like Patience, Charity, and Prudence. Historically, Quakers named their offspring after virtues that they wanted the children to embody.  In the book, they asked the question, what would you call yourself, if you named yourself after a virtue?

The apostle Saul (named after Israel's first king, a giant of a man) changed his name to Paul, which means "small."  It seems that he wanted to offset his lofty call to ministry with a humble name.

Paul's friend Joseph changed his name (or had it changed for him) to Barnabas, which means "Son of Encouragement."  It's no question what virtue he wanted to embody.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, God changed the name of Sarai (meaning "She who Strives") to Sarah-- "Princess."  It seems she took her position as mother of a nation quite literally!

Not everybody has to change their name, to be named after a virtue.  When I was young, I learned that my name, Gregory, means the nouns "Protector" and "Watchman," as well as the adjectives, "Vigilant" and "Fierce."  I always took that to heart.  Both as a pastor and now as a case manager, I have seen myself as a guardian of other people.  So I didn't have to change my name in order to be named after a virtue.  Knowing my name had a virtuous meaning was significant in my self-understanding.  If I could pick any virtuous name, it would probably be exactly what it already is.  

So, what would you call yourself, if you could change your name to reflect any virtue?  Would you be Piety, or Holiness, or Constance?  Maybe Welcome or Assistance or Selflessness? If by changing your name you could shift your focus, what would you become?  What Virtue do you hold most dear, and what would you do, to embody that character trait even more in your life?

I Peter 1:5-7 ESV says,"...Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue, and virtue with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with steadfastness, and steadfastness with godliness, and godliness with brotherly affection, and brotherly affection with love."  Make every effort, Paul says.  What if you placed your foremost virtue so prominently in your mind that it became as familiar to you as your own name?  You become what you focus on the most, so pretty soon you would become that outlandish virtue, and it would become you.  

Jesus must have thought that names were important--so he chose to be called Immanuel, or "God With Us."  Whether you change your name or not, the question remains--how do you want to be known?  By living out your ultimate virtue, you create a legacy that will outlast you.  If your goal is to be like Jesus, you'll want people to see a bit of God when they look at you.

Sunday, June 13, 2021

When the Wrecking Ball Hits Your Faith

"Hello, my name is Kevin Max, and I'm an #exvangelical."  That was the tweet from the DC Talk and now independent musician whose Christian music I've listened to since I was a teenager.  In Max's debut as an #exvangelical, he announced that he is deconstructing his faith.  (Read more in this article from the Christian Post.)  In essence, the singer is demolishing what he's always been taught so he can rebuild his faith in a way that makes sense to him.  (Cue the gasps from all the Sunday school teachers.)
  
You might think that deconstructing is the absolute opposite of what a Christian ought to do.  I mean, Jesus talked about the wise man building his house on the rock, not tearing it down.  But sometimes you've got to deconstruct something that's falling down, in order to build something stronger.  In the Christian Post article, Kevin Max discusses what no longer works for him--and the new faith he's found by tearing down what's broken.  It seems these days, a lot of people are doing the same thing.


According to a Gallup finding published in March of this year, membership in houses of worship in the United States has now dipped below 50%.  The article says, "U.S. church membership was 73% when Gallup first measured it in 1937 and remained near 70% for the next six decades, before beginning a steady decline around the turn of the 21st century."  For regular church attenders, this isn't shocking news.  We have seen radical decline in our own churches, and blamed everything from Rock and Roll music to baseball.  But maybe the change isn't from outside influences.  Many are beginning to deconstruct what they've been taught, because they've discovered the foundations are built on sand instead of stone.

"House on the Sand (Matthew :7:24-27) (EXPLORED)" by Redeemed & Forgiven is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

As one body, Sunday school teachers clasp their hands to their mouths, aghast that their students may be questioning their catechism and Lifeway lessons.  We've been taught not to question, not to challenge what we've been taught--but what if that advice is more for control than anything else?  What if they are really just trying to keep you from deconstructing Potemkin's village?


Russian Empress Catherine the Great toured poverty-stricken Crimea in 1787.  According to legend, the governor of that region, Grigory Potemkin, erected phony villages along her route, populated with happy, well-fed people who were actually brought in from central Russia.  Though this story is dubious, today the term Potemkin village refers to any real or metaphorical facade, meant to deceive people into believing that things are better than they are.  When my Sunday school teacher taught me not to question my faith, she was hoping that like Catherine the Great, I would ccontinue to see the shiny facade instead of the crumbling building underneath.


Many Christians never get beyond the "Sunday school answers" that they've been taught.  I'm grateful to my seminary professors for encouraging me to think, question, pray, and investigate, rather than blindly accepting everything I learned at church.  Because not everything my pastors told me was true.  Today, it seems a lot of good folks are questioning religious assumptions they've held for years.  They're realizing that they've built their house on sand instead of stone.  But instead of waiting for the next storm to blow it down, people like Kevin Max are intentionally deconstructing their faith in order to build something stronger, and on a better foundation.


In Matthew 7:24-27 (NIV), Jesus says:

 “...Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”


Mostly, I've heard it preached that the sandy ground represents the either doubt, or the unstable things of this world, while the solid foundation is a rock-solid belief system.  But Jesus is clear that stability comes from putting into practice his teachings.  It's not about adherence to doctrines--it's trying to live and love like Jesus that prevents the crash.  Too many church leaders would have you believe that the solid rock is theology, but it's not.  It's Jesus himself.  Unfortunately, there are a lot of righteous-looking, religious things that feel like bedrock, but are really sand.  Sometimes you've got to deconstruct the things that appear solid, in order to find the rot underneath.


"Wrecking Ball" by Editor B is licensed under CC BY 2.0

People like Kevin Max are deconstructing things like:

  • Original sin;
  • The virgin birth;
  • Christian exclusivism;
  • Miracles (biblical as well as modern);
  • The inspiration, inerrancy, or infallibility of Scripture;
  • The closed canon of the Protestant or Catholic Bible;
  • The existence of a literal hell, and the judgment of God that puts people there;
  • Penal substitutionary atonement;
  • Conservative teachings on "Biblical understandings on marriage, sexuality, and gender";
  • Popular apocalyptic teachings from eschatological writings of the Bible;
  • The Church's participation in promoting racism, sexism, patriarchy, capitalism, slavery, genocide, and empire-building;
  • The Church's historical role as an exploiter of the environment, rather than a keeper of the earth.

I'm sure I've left out some important ones--but these will just get the wrecking ball swinging.  Maybe you've been struggling with some of these yourself.  And, like Jacob, you've left the wrestling match with a permanent limp.  You've walked out of church and sworn never to come back.  Or, you've remained in the church because of obligations or community, even though you're convinced you're not going to find what you need there.  If that's so, let me encourage you.  

First, God loves you.  Maybe you still follow Jesus but no longer use the word "Christian."  Or, you've been so hurt or confused that you don't know what you believe anymore.  You might have found a different religion altogether.  Perhaps you're "spiritual, but not religious."  Regardless, I want you to know that God still loves you.  No matter whether you talk about your Higher Power, or the Universe, or Ultimate Reality, or Buddha Nature, or Allah-- the God who is Love continues to surround you, embrace you, and enjoy your company.  

Second, it's okay that you're deconstructing.  Better to do it now, than wait til the storm blows your house down.  One of the best things I ever did was to go point by point through my denomination's statement of faith, and rewrite it accordintg to what I actually believe, rather than accepting what was handed to me.  Once I tore out the rotten roof, floor boards, sheet rock, and even some of the studs, I found the strong foundation that remained, so I could build again.  And so can you.  It doesn't mean that you're lost--it means you're thinking.  And God likes it when we use our brains.

Third, you're not alone.  Whether your faith is changing or whether you've given up on religion altogether, there are others who are either in the same spot, or who have been there before.  There are people of faith to welcome and affirm you, who refuse to abuse, who are safe, who encourage.  Seek out those churches, those safe people.  Below, I want to give a few resources for you, if you're looking for some guidance or community.

  • I'd love to talk with you!  Leave a comment, fill in the contact form to the right of this post, or email me at revgregsmith@gmail.com.
  • Read authors who represent the Emerging Church, a movement of openness and inclusion that values good questions over having all the right answers.  I suggest books by Brian McLaren, Greg Boyd, N.T. Wright, Marcus Borg, Carlton Pearson, Henri Nouwen, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Dan Kimball, Matthew Vines, Andrew Farley, Bruxy Cavey, John Pavlovitz, Doug Hammack, and Richard Rohr.  
  • Talk with openminded people who will listen nonjudgmentally and encourage your questions.  Listen to those who have also deconstructed their faith, and built something stronger when they were done.
  • Leave spiritually abusive churches.  Spiritually abusive churches and leaders tell you what you MUST believe.  They discourage free thought, asking questions, and exploration.  For them, it's either their way or the highway.  The best thing to do in this case is to choose the highway.  Only by hitting the road can you take the journey to find the good foundation where you can build again.
  • Be prepared to experience grief.  David Hayward offers a course in dealing with the sense of loss associated with changing beliefs, recognizing that while deconstruction is a healthy thing, it is also a painful thing.  I hope you'll explore his entire website, as he makes deconstruction his full-time focus..  

Recently, I drove past a familiar restaurant where the management had posted a sign that read, "Closed for renovation."  But behind the sign there was no restaurant--only a pile of rubble.  Maybe your foundation is so bad that you don't need a reno project--you need a spiritual demolition.  It's safer to tear it apart yourself than to wait til it's full of people and the storm knocks it down.  When the wrecking ball hits your faith, when you can strip it down to the ground and rebuild on a solid foundation.

Thursday, December 24, 2020

"Silent Night, Lonely Night: Christmas in Pandemic"


Silver starlight descends with the snow as 
aged hands light Christmas candles, 
alone at home though her family is near.  
Tears trickle with liquid love, reliving holidays past, 
with children and grandchildren gathered 
in a cacophony of grownup laughter, 
baby's cries, childhood play, and teenage angst.  
But not this year.  
Now, she is alone in her silent night,
lonely night, lonely night.

Two doors down the dawn will come 
to babies she will not see.
Little feet will race down stairs,  
delighted squeals above the sound of tearing paper.
But not for her.
This year has taken many things from her:
ability to travel, 
pure breath free from the filter of a mask,
financial security,
social stability.
But the greatest toll is being alone 
on this silent night, lonely night, lonely night.

Her mind reaches back to a couple, young, 
frantic in their need in that quiet Judean town,
turned away from human dwelling,
alone beneath the light of a single star.
Amid the agony of labor, 
a young woman pleads for her mother who isn't there.
Filled with desperation, 
a young man yearns for the steady hand of his father,
nowhere to be seen.
They, too, feel socially distant, isolated.

Silver starlight descends on angel wings as
Joseph kindles his lamp in the stable 
alone among beasts, though people are near. 
Even shepherds keep their distance when they visit,
faces hidden beneath their scarves,
because they are called unclean.
Tears trickle with liquid love, celebrating this present moment, 
grateful for what he does have:
the warmth of a stable, the love of his wife,
a newborn child,
in a cacophony of stable sound, 
and it is enough
on this silent night, lonely night, lonely night.

Grandma's heart reaches to the tent city
surrounded by bustling town, 
figures huddling beneath discarded layers 
of thin tarpaulin, wet cardboard, and sodden clothes.
Turned away from human dwelling,
alone beneath the light of a neon sign.
A cacaphony of souls scream in the night,
a bit of raucous laughter,
others cursing ghosts of the mind,
still more finding solace in strangers' arms
or the warmth and oblivion of a pipe.

Silver starlight descends with visiting angels
who bear no gold, frankincense, or myrrh, 
but whose treasures smell like coffee,
protect like masks and wipes,
and feel like love.
So Grandma puts on angel's wings, which look like PPE.
Leaving her warmth to join the Seraphim,
she shares her manna of  blankets and smiles.
Keen ears listen to well-traveled stories from a safe distance
as hot tears warm her cheeks with liquid love.

It's Christmas in pandemic, 
but change is in the air.
The Star shines as it hasn't done in centuries,
and hope for the nations wispers peace
to a weary and war-torn world.
"No room at your inn," say the mandates from above.
So Grandma takes her love outside
and gives,
behind mask, at a distance,
but gives,
on this silent night, lovely night, holy night.





Saturday, December 19, 2020

"Racism in the White, Southern Church: A Pastor's Confession of Compromise"

"I hear you've been invited to preach at the Black church," the deacon told me.  "Do you think that's wise?"

Yes, this was a real conversation in a real church I served in Virginia.  One of the great things about having been either a youth pastor or senior pastor at six churches is that when I talk about them, nobody knows which church it is.  So there will be no names--but this really happened.  This is the tragedy of a congregation and community in the rural South, where such things still happen...and the story of a pastor who still had a lot to learn.  It's a story in which we learn that the color of compromise is yellow, and how cowardly some churches and pastors can be.  I'll tell you more in a minute.  But first...

"The Color of Compromise is both enlightening and compelling, telling a history we either ignore or just don't know. Equal parts painful and inspirational, it details how the American church has helped create and maintain racist ideas and practices. You will be guided in thinking through concrete solutions for improved race relations and a racially inclusive church....The Color of Compromise is not a call to shame or a platform to blame white evangelical Christians. It is a call from a place of love and desire to fight for a more racially unified church that no longer compromises what the Bible teaches about human dignity and equality."


Jemar Tisby's book is a must-read for all followers of Jesus who want to understand the real history of brutal racism in the American church.  The author goes beyond discussing aggressive forms of racism, and tackles the passive-aggressive prejudice that allows racism to exist and thrive.  Tisby talks about the "go along to get along" attitude toward racism that does nothing more than perpetuate discrimination, even if motivated by a well-intentioned desire for unity in the church.  I hope you'll get a paper copy that you can take notes in, underline, and mark up.  It's definitely worth the read!

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" the deacon asked, piercing me with a gaze that said, "You know that you'll be in trouble if you do this, don't you?" That stern look also made me wonder if this deacon might be the source of the trouble, and if this "kind advice" might be more of a threat than a caution.

Bear in mind--I was not a novice pastor at this point in my career.  So I knew that in a Baptist church, the pastor doesn't truly call the shots, and lives or dies professionally at the whim of the people.  Neither was I a seasoned veteran, full of confidence and able to weather the storms of an angry congregation.  So I did the only thing I could think of.

I compromised.  Well, to be honest, I lied.  

Compromise would imply a give-and-take.  But in this case, all I did was take.  I took back my promise, and broke my word.  Or maybe the compromise wasn't with other people, but with my own beliefs, and my own character.  In any case, it was one of the things I'm most ashamed of in my life, and I have told few people about until now.

"I'm sorry," I told my friend, the pastor of the other church.  "When I agreed to speak on that date, I forgot that I'd already booked that Sunday off with my family."

I'm sure he could see through my lie, but he also knew that I was so fragile at this moment that he let me get away with it.  He simply said, "Well, maybe some other time."

You have to understand the deep-seated racism in the rural South where I served.  You have to know that integrated churches in that region are few and far-between.  On page 52 of The Color of Compromise, Tisby says:

"Harsh though it may sound, the facts of history nevertheless bear out this truth: there would be no black church without racism in the white church."

Yes, it's true that the African American church was formed by formerly enslaved people who left the Caucasian church of their own accord, to establish for themselves churches and denominations independent of their former enslavers.  So it could be said that the segregation of the American church is due to the actions of Black worshipers.  Yet, there would have been no need for these believers' mass exodus from white churches, had it not been for the racism of church leaders who forced congregants of color to endure continued submission in church roles.  Realizing that segregated worship was the only way to find equality in the church, Black believers had left the white church in droves.

In my time pastoring that little church, I had seen the racism of my own congregants.  I had also built (what I believed to be) a friendship with the pastor of the local African American church.  I visited them when I could, when their services fell at times when my own church had no meetings.  I became known to the people of that congregation, and I felt I knew some of them.  So the invitation came naturally, when that church scheduled it's anniversary celebration, marking a benchmark number of years since its founding.  "It only makes sense that you speak at our church," the pastor had told me.  "Since the ancestors of our church members had been former members of your congregation."  I thought it made perfect sense, too, so I had accepted the invitation.  But then I had caved, and lied, and damaged a friendship, at the slightest pressure from a racist deacon who may or may not have even been speaking for the others in my church.  (And so what, if that deacon had been speaking for all of them?)  Yes, the color of my compromise was as yellow as the cowardice in my heart.  And I have regretted that decision from that day until now.

Let me emphasize--I knew this decision was cowardly, even before I carried it out.  I didn't "slip into sin"--I ran into this lie as if into the arms of a savior that would rescue me from a tight spot.  I knew it was wrong, but I didn't see any way out.  I thought it was the easiest way to keep my deacon and other church members happy, while saving face with the neighboring church that I had come to love, too.  What I didn't realize was the rift that it would create, how guilt would prevent me from entering the doors of that neighboring church for another fifteen years--and how the face I was trying to save had ended up breaking relationships.  What I didn't realize was the chasm it would create in my own soul. 

Jemar Tisby writes:

[Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech] was August 28, 1963. More than fifty years later, how far has the American church come in terms of race relations? The “Whites Only” and “No Negros Allowed” signs have been taken down, but schools remain segregated. People of color are incarcerated at disproportionally hight rates. Black unemployment remains double that of whites. Most poignantly, churches remain largely segregated. The reluctance to reckon with racism has led to a chasm between black and white Christians in theology, politics, and culture. This chasm only makes it harder to productively communicate and take effective action around racial issues.  (Pg. 192)

I was still struggling with this chasm when, a few months later, another opportunity for the church and me to do the right thing emerged.  I received a phone call from a bride-to-be who said she was looking for a church building to rent, for their upcoming ceremony.  She explained to me that she was a member of a local congregation, but their facility was too small to handle the crowd she expected.  "We've always driven by your church and thought how pretty it was, and we're wondering if it's available."  I told her that I didn't make those decisions, that we had a committee that handled bookings of our facilities.  I told her I'd talk with the committee and have them give her a call.  I did just that, and once I had passed the job on to the committee chair, I thought nothing else of it.

Some time later, the chair called me back, her voice quavering anxiously.  "Did you know that the couple is Black?"

I was glad that she couldn't see me rolling my eyes through the telephone, but I don't think I disguised my feelings as telegraphed through my own voice.  "Well, first of all, you can't see what a person looks like through the telephone, so no, I didn't know that they were Black.  But, second, so what if they are Black?  Why does that make a difference?  This is, after all, the twenty-first century."

That ruffled her.  "I...well, I... you don't understand," she said.  "We don't rent our building to their kind.  The committee is going to tell them no."

That pissed me off.  I knew very well that we did not have a discrimination policy, and that it was only the intent of the committee, or perhaps only the chair of the committee, to keep people of color out of our building.  So I told her this had to be decided by the church at large.

By the time our church business meeting came up, word had spread through the whole congregation that one of the things on the agenda would be a decision whether or not we would allow this particular couple to rent our building.  People came with their proverberial guns loaded for bear.  However, as we began to look into the date the couple had requested the use of our building, we discovered that the church already had a major event planned for that entire weekend.  So it was decided that we would contact the couple and say that we were sorry, it was nothing personal, but the building simply wasn't available for their wedding.

That pacified a few people, but it just made me even more angry.  I had come to the meeting prepared to settle this matter once and for all.  Instead, the missed opportunity to decide for inclusion seemed like one more nail in the church's racist coffin.  So, at our next business meeting after that, I came to the church with a well-drafted nondiscrimination resolution that I wanted the church to pass.  After reading the resolution and allowing time for discussion, I asked for the vote to be by show of hands.  And, to my surprise, the resolution passed with only a few dissenting votes.  What a cause for celebration!

In The Color of Compromise, Tisby writes:

In the Bible, James 4:17 says, “If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them”…The church today must practice the good that ought to be done. To look at this history and then refuse to act only perpetuates racist patterns. It is time for the church to stand against racism and compromise no longer (Pg 212).

I was so proud that my church had known the good that needed to be done, and then had the courage to act on its convictions.  I was so delighted with the decision that I framed the nondiscrimination policy and nailed it to the wall in the sanctuary, in a spot where every passerby would see it.  It was only later that I learned that not everybody who had voted for the policy actually agreed with it.  When asked why they had supported it, one grumbler stated, "The vote was by show of hands--I wasn't going to be publicly racist."

And isn't that just the thing?  The church doesn't want to be publicly racist.  That's why the deacon took me aside in private to say I shouldn't preach at the Black church.  That's why everyone breathed a sigh of relief when our building just happened to be unavailable for the wedding.  That's why the few African Americans who have entered white churches in the South have done so with a sense of dread--not because of what's said to their face, but behind their backs.

Don't get me wrong--overt, malicious racism in the church is rare, in my experience.  But I have wondered why do-nothing members were nominated for deacon, when the Black deacon who had joined us from another church was never mentioned.  I have had to explain why it's offensive when farmers refer to the migrant workers they employ as "Our Mexicans," (especially when some were from Honduras).  And I have heard the loud silent gasps of the congregation when a person of color ascended the pulpit to preach in my place.  

Racism has been a pernicious thorn in the flesh of the Southern, white, evangelical church for a long time.  I confess that when I was younger, I compromised my own non-racist beliefs to keep the peace.  I didn't realize at the time that it's not enough to be non-racist.  Only an anti-racist stance from church leadership can break the cycle of overt hatred and violence, as well as covert undercuts and bigotry.  Ephesians 2:13-15 says:

But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ. For He Himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has torn down the dividing wall of hostility by abolishing in His flesh the law of commandments and decrees. He did this to create in Himself one new man out of the two, thus making peace…


Christians, if we believe that's true, then it's not enough to defend our perceived non-racism by proclaiming that we have Black friends.  It's not enough that we try to be fair and equitable by declaring that "all lives matter," rather than singling out the significant pain of one particular group.  Instead, we've got to come to terms with the systemic racism present in our society and in our churches.  We've got to have courage enough to face our own racism, because it's there, whether we want to believe it or not.  We've got to educate ourselves, and gain perspectives we've never had before  (Jemar Tisby's book is a good start).  And we've got to become proactive rather than reactive.

Remember the old tradition of "testimony night" in many evangelical churches?  In the absence of a sermon, church members would get up and tell their own stories of God's goodness.  At testiony night, we heard tales of miracles, of broken relationships restored, and of blessings.  But the ones that always moved us the most were the confessions.  When a brother or sister stood up and said, "This is how I've failed, but this is also where I've learned, where God has given grace, and where I can do better."  I think its time that we had testimony night.  I've gotten the ball rolling, with my confession.  Now, it's your turn.


 

 


Saturday, December 12, 2020

"Are You Religious?"

"Are you religious?" he asked me.  

"Damn, I hope not," I said--and I meant it.  Because religious people are more concerned with the fact that I used that word than the fact that I instantly diffused any tension there might be in the conversation, in order to have a deep conversation about Jesus.  But we didn't begin there--we started out talking about tattoos and whiskey, and how I, as a follower of Jesus can enjoy both of those things.  He talked about how he'd been hurt by religion, and I assured him that God doesn't want us to be religious, anyway.  God just wants our hearts.  The problem was, it was an uphill conversation, because the church had convinced him that religion was all about putting on a righteous appearance, and looking down on people who didn't fit the standards of the Christian culture.  So I told him a story...

Jesus said, “But what do you think about this? A man with two sons told the older boy, ‘Son, go out and work in the vineyard today.’ The son answered, ‘No, I won’t go,’ but later he changed his mind and went anyway. Then the father told the other son, ‘You go,’ and he said, ‘Yes, sir, I will.’ But he didn’t go. “Which of the two obeyed his father?”

They replied, “The first.”

Then Jesus explained his meaning: “I tell you the truth, corrupt tax collectors and prostitutes will get into the Kingdom of God before you do. For John the Baptist came and showed you the right way to live, but you didn’t believe him, while tax collectors and prostitutes did. And even when you saw this happening, you refused to believe him and repent of your sins (Matthew 21.28-32 NLT).

The man shook his head.  "Yep, I've known a lot of Christians who said they followed Jesus, but you'd never know it."

"So have I," I said, "And I worked with them for years.  I've also known a lot of people who were closer to following Jesus than some church folks were, even though they'd never call themselves Christians."

"That makes sense," he told me.  "I've always thought life was about knowing that God is love, and trying to live like God.  I never thought it was about going to church and trying to impress people by how good I am.  Is that right?" he asked.

Giving him a fist bump, I said, "Damn straight."

Thursday, November 19, 2020

Bloom Where You Are Planted

This is the dumbest picture of me, ever!  Not because I'm making a goofy face, but because of the stupid situation.  When this picture was taken, I was on the U.S. side of the border, and my wife, Christina, was on the Canadian side.  When she took the picture, we were separated by nothing more than an imaginary line, and COVID-19 restrictions that kept us apart.  So we met at the border for a no-contact visit.  

Being separated has been tough--and it looks like, for as long as Coronavirus is a thing, we're going to have extended periods of time apart.  Pre-COVID, I used to live and work in Washington on weekdays and go to Canada on the weekends.  Because of the mandatory fourteen-day quarantine in Canada, the new telework plan is to spend a month in Bellingham, followed by two weeks in isolation with Christina in Chilliwack--and to repeat that pattern until the border reopens for post-COVID travel.

Trailer in September, just after move-in
While I feel most at home with Christina, these are my temporary digs in Washington.  When I moved to the Pacific Northwest from Virginia almost two years ago, I rented a place from a little old lady, who passed away a few months ago.  Since I could no longer live there, I took up residence in my 31-foot travel trailer, which is a comfortable size for one person (or two, who are very good friends).  I've made these temporary acommodations as permanent as possible by ordering high speed internet at my RV site, getting a massive propane tank, and buying a generator in case I lose power in a winter storm.  I also added insulation around the slide-out, and as a skirt around the bottom to keep out the chill.  I'm learning how to live, and not just vacation, in an RV.  All this back and forth, and temporary living, has taught me a thing or two about what "permanent" really means.

Trailer in November, settling in for the winter
One thing that strikes me is that nothing is as permanent as it seems.  Everything is temporary.  I could go to a couple different places with this.  This could be depressing, if I focus on the very real fact that when we said "I do" last December, it means that we can only be together for fifty years or so before we die, if we're lucky.  But instead of living that downer, I'd prefer to spin that on its head and say that in all the back and forth, in all the temporary living, we've learned not to take anything for granted.  Sure, we'd rather be together full-time.  And of course, we look forward to the time when my "permanent" residency is granted and we can be together for good.  But for now, we take each day as a gift, and make the most of it.  Not to diminish what other couples feel for each other, but I think that people who can live together full-time often take it for granted.  It's just what's normal for them.  But married couples who can't be together because of military service, incarceration, long-distance employment, border separations, or other reasons--these couples learn never to take their togetherness for granted.  Which means that when they are together, they make the most of it, and appreciate every moment.

Because I realize that everything is temporary, I also know that I am a stranger and an alien, wherever I go.  The Bible reminds us that believers are sojourners while we're on earth (1 Peter 2.11-12), and that we're to be in the world but not of it (John 17.16).  But unfortunately, many Christians have spent so much time looking forward to heaven that they have taken the license to mistreat the earth that is their current home.  Instead, we need to say, "Because I'm only here a short time, I'm going to make the best impression I can while I'm in my temporary home."  Living temporarily in Washington, I have realized that since I'm only in one place for a short time, I should keep my footprint small, and tread lightly so as not to disturb the balance of nature.  But I've also learned to make the best positive impact on this community while I'm here.  Just as a hiker "takes nothing but photos and leaves nothing but footprints," I'm reminded to enjoy the beauty of my temporary home while I'm here, and leave it for other wayfarers to enjoy.

I have also gained an understanding and an affinity for all immigrants, refugees, vagrants, vagabonds, and those who are living moment-to-moment, uncertain as they wait for their future to unfold.  If you've always lived in the same place, generally had the same job, and never felt like there was a great big question mark attached to your status, you might not know what I'm talking about.  While I'm far from the same condition as the homeless population that I work with 5 days a week, I've spent the past two years living temporarily, living in-between two countries.  It's hard for people, far from their birth-home, to feel like they belong.  But you learn to invest yourself in the place where you are, looking around instead of looking behind.  

Years ago, a cross-stitch similar to this one hung in a church where I served as youth minister.  The grandma who made it probably had no idea the influence she would make on my life.  For the past 27 years (give or take), it has reminded me that no matter how temporary a situation may seem, I need to invest myself in the community, in the people, in the world where I'm planted.  Whether the present situation lasts a month, a year, or longer, I will thrive in this blessed moment--because it is a gift to treasure. 

"Bloom where you are planted" is perhaps the best advice I could receive as a stranger, an alien, a traveler on this earth.  If you feel out of place yourself, I'd encourage you to put down roots, even if the soil is temporary.  Settle in, and bloom.  Because a seed that doesn't grow and bloom remains just a bundle of potential.  But when you grow and flower where you're planted, you give life--and you help others smile along the way. 





Saturday, November 7, 2020

After the Election - "Now What" for Christians?

Today, after the election, many Christians are asking themselves, "Now what?"  Prior to the vote, believers on both sides of the aisle declared that you can't call yourself a Christian if you vote for the opposite party.  Many Evangelicals voted Republican, believing Trump to be God's anointed man for the presidency, and the defender of conservative family values.  Yet many Jesus-followers supported the election of Joe Biden, believing their candidate to represent dignity and wisdom, as well as the love of Jesus for the outcast and the poor.  Much as Confederate and American brothers prayed to the same God as they battled against each other in the Civil War, believers on both sides of this election claimed to be right.  No matter whether your candidate won or lost the election, Christians across America are asking themselves, "Now what?"



The answer: Act like Jesus.  But what does this mean? What would (or wouldn't) Jesus do, in the aftermath of a contentious election?  If you, as a Christian, want to act like Jesus (which shold be the ultimate goal of every believer), what should (or shouldn't) you do?

1.  Don't gloat.  If your candidate won, it's fine to party, to celebrate, to cry tears of joy, to dance in the streets.  After all, when the disciples told Jesus about their defeat of the devil's forces in His name, Jesus said:
I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven. Behold, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy. Nothing will harm you. Nevertheless, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven (Luke 10:18-20).

Jesus recognized, and even enjoyed the victory that his followers celebrated--but he encouraged them to focus on the good things to come in the future, rather than the demonic nature of their spiritual enemy.  I believe Jesus would tell Christians who voted for Biden not to gloat, but to celebrate and look to a brighter future.

2.  Don't complain.  Many Evangelicals who claimed Donald Trump was God's choice for the presidency actually believed him to represent the character of Christ.  Others saw Trump's racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, lies, and deceptions, but likened him to wicked biblical kings like Saul and Cyrus.  Even though those biblical kings had their flaws, those Evangelicals claimed that God put them in office to accomplish particular things.  Similarly, they believed Trump to be God's anointed, as evidenced by the fact that he won the election over Hilary Clinton.  If you believed that Trump's election was evidence that God put him in office, then don't complain now--since, according to your logic, Trump's defeat ought to indicate that he lost God's mandate.  So if your candidate lost, don't complain--just trust that if God chose Trump four years ago, God chose Biden in 2020.



3.  Love your enemies.  If you refuse to gloat or complain, that will go a long way toward acting in a loving way towards those people who you may have considered your political enemies.  Besides loving them, Jesus told His followers to pray for those who persecute them.  Do you feel like the other side has been absolutely horrible?  Do you feel like they deserve to feel that way?  Maybe you're right--but Jesus expects His followers to treat other people with the same grace that they have received from God.  As in grace, God treats us better than we deserve, so believers ought to treat their enemies better than they deserve, as well.

4.  Make peace.  These times have been so divisive, and have been filled with such hate and violence on both sides.  Now is our opportunity to make peace.  Jesus said, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God (Matthew 5:9)."  It's time to reach across the lines and take the hands (metaphorically, because--pandemic) of the people who see things radically differently from you.  In Matthew 12:25, Jesus said, "Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every city or household divided against itself will not stand."  These are tough enough times for the church, without the body of Christ being divided.  We need the whole body, undivided, to do the work of God.

5.  Continue to Confront Evil.  Yes, God is love, but "Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild" is just a song title.  Jesus wasn't afraid to cast out demons, confront religious and civil authorities, or overturn the tables of economic corruption.  The apostle Paul said, "If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all (Romans 12:18)."  But sometimes it doesn't depend on us.  Sometimes others bring the conflict, and other times the evil is so aggregious that Christians can't ignore it in good conscience.  So, if you call yourself a follower of Jesus, continue to confront evil by opposing injustice.  Stand in solidarity with people of color who are rising up, insisting that their lives matter.  Become an ally for LGBTQIA+ folks, who have to fight for their most basic human rights.  Defend the families of the poor, the alien, the stranger.  As the prophet said, "Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream (Amos 5:24)!"

For followers of Jesus, it's really important that we ask ourselves, "Now what?"  Because the church has been so divided and divisive that the rest of the world looks at us and says, "So what?"  So what, if you call yourself Christians, if you say you love your enemy, but don't even love your neighbor?  So what, if you say you believe you've received God's grace, but won't even give it to others?  So what, if you claim to have the answers that the world needs to hear, if you can't even get along with each other long enough to ask the right questions together?  So, after the election, "Now what?"  Don't gloat.  Don't complain.  Love your enemies.  Make peace.  Continue to confront evil.  Because in the words of Galatians 5:6, "the only thing that matters is faith working through love."


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