You can listen to it here.
It's part of a sermon series called "Half-Truths." Each week the congregation -- Crossroads UMC in Ashburn, VA -- is looking at a popular saying that people think is biblical/part of the Christian tradition, but really isn't a good representation of that tradition. My "half-truth" was "God won't give you more than you can handle."
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
My friend Morgan wrote a book
Hi friends.
At the beginning of last month, I posted on here and said that I was going to be writing more regularly and that you would be seeing the fruits of that writing.
Fun fact: I lied.
Well, "lied" sounds intentional. The actual fact of the matter is that I've been struggling with a mixture of writer's block, existential doubt, and my old friend depression, who seems to haunt around every corner that looks even a little bit like failure.
Also I have cold. Blergh.
One thing that I have been meaning to write, in fact that I promised to write, is a book review. I was supposed to review a book written by my friend, Morgan Guyton. The book is called How Jesus Saves the World from Us: 12 Antidotes to Toxic Christianity.
It's a good book. I recommend it. You can buy it here.
I told Morgan that I would post something about his book on my blog. I told him I would do so last Tuesday. I didn't. Then I felt really bad about it. So I promised myself I would post it on Wednesday. I didn't. So then I started feeling really awful and ashamed about the fact that I had not posted about it, even though (rationally) I doubt Morgan, who is in the middle of launching a book, really noticed that I had failed to do so. Especially since some rather more high-profile folks than me are talking about his book. But I kept feeling worse and worse about not writing anything about it, and kept trying to come up with something clever or good or helpful to say about it, and not coming up with anything, and so not posting anything, and then feeling bad about it. And, if I'm being completely honest, I was feeling a bit bitter and jealous of my friend Morgan, who was able to write a book, while I'm apparently incapable of even writing something about a book that someone else managed to write.
This is not a particularly flattering thing to share about myself, but c'mon, you know you've thought this kind of thing before.
And then, while complaining to my wife about something completely different, she said to me: "Why don't you try to do one thing at a time and not try to do everything at once?"
Which is wise advice.
So I decided I would post about the book written by my friend Morgan.
Which I still have nothing clever or helpful to say about, other than this:
It is a good book. You should read it, if you are interested in faith or if you have become un-interested in faith because of hurtful things that religious people have done or said.
And also, this:
One of the things that Morgan's book says is that our desperate need to justify ourselves and to perform does a lot more damage than it does good, and the grace our faith proclaims is exactly the opposite of all of that. And that is probably a good thing for me to remember, when I have a bad case of writer's block and am feeling a bit depressed and can't, for the life of me, come up with anything useful to write about a friend's book.
Which you should buy.
By clicking here.
At the beginning of last month, I posted on here and said that I was going to be writing more regularly and that you would be seeing the fruits of that writing.
Fun fact: I lied.
Well, "lied" sounds intentional. The actual fact of the matter is that I've been struggling with a mixture of writer's block, existential doubt, and my old friend depression, who seems to haunt around every corner that looks even a little bit like failure.
Also I have cold. Blergh.
One thing that I have been meaning to write, in fact that I promised to write, is a book review. I was supposed to review a book written by my friend, Morgan Guyton. The book is called How Jesus Saves the World from Us: 12 Antidotes to Toxic Christianity.
It's a good book. I recommend it. You can buy it here.
I told Morgan that I would post something about his book on my blog. I told him I would do so last Tuesday. I didn't. Then I felt really bad about it. So I promised myself I would post it on Wednesday. I didn't. So then I started feeling really awful and ashamed about the fact that I had not posted about it, even though (rationally) I doubt Morgan, who is in the middle of launching a book, really noticed that I had failed to do so. Especially since some rather more high-profile folks than me are talking about his book. But I kept feeling worse and worse about not writing anything about it, and kept trying to come up with something clever or good or helpful to say about it, and not coming up with anything, and so not posting anything, and then feeling bad about it. And, if I'm being completely honest, I was feeling a bit bitter and jealous of my friend Morgan, who was able to write a book, while I'm apparently incapable of even writing something about a book that someone else managed to write.
This is not a particularly flattering thing to share about myself, but c'mon, you know you've thought this kind of thing before.
And then, while complaining to my wife about something completely different, she said to me: "Why don't you try to do one thing at a time and not try to do everything at once?"
Which is wise advice.
So I decided I would post about the book written by my friend Morgan.
Which I still have nothing clever or helpful to say about, other than this:
It is a good book. You should read it, if you are interested in faith or if you have become un-interested in faith because of hurtful things that religious people have done or said.
And also, this:
One of the things that Morgan's book says is that our desperate need to justify ourselves and to perform does a lot more damage than it does good, and the grace our faith proclaims is exactly the opposite of all of that. And that is probably a good thing for me to remember, when I have a bad case of writer's block and am feeling a bit depressed and can't, for the life of me, come up with anything useful to write about a friend's book.
Which you should buy.
By clicking here.
Friday, April 1, 2016
In (brief) praise of foolishness
I don't like April Fool's Day.
I hate pranks. Joke news articles that get posted online never rise to the humor level of actual satire, and often involve making light of things that aren't really that funny.
But I did name this blog with a nod to the foolishness of faith, so I thought I'd take a brief moment on this first day of April to celebrate foolishness.
Writing to a church wracked with conflict, scandal, and political machinations, the apostle Paul wrote this sometime in the 1st century:
Foolishness.
An even playing field.
Foolishness.
Compassion winning out over hatred.
Foolishness.
Love being the strongest force, the thing that holds the universe together.
Foolishness, foolishness, foolishness.
I hate pranks. But here's to foolishness.
I hate pranks. Joke news articles that get posted online never rise to the humor level of actual satire, and often involve making light of things that aren't really that funny.
But I did name this blog with a nod to the foolishness of faith, so I thought I'd take a brief moment on this first day of April to celebrate foolishness.
Writing to a church wracked with conflict, scandal, and political machinations, the apostle Paul wrote this sometime in the 1st century:
Look at your situation when you were called, brothers and sisters! By ordinary human standards not many were wise, not many were powerful, not many were from the upper class. But God chose what the world considers foolish to shame the wise. God chose what the world considers weak to shame the strong. And God chose what the world considers low-class and low-life—what is considered to be nothing—to reduce what is considered to be something to nothing. So no human being can brag in God’s presence.Not many wise, not many powerful, not many form the upper class -- but God chooses what is nothing to reduce all the "something-ness" that we strive for to naught.
Foolishness.
An even playing field.
Foolishness.
Compassion winning out over hatred.
Foolishness.
Love being the strongest force, the thing that holds the universe together.
Foolishness, foolishness, foolishness.
I hate pranks. But here's to foolishness.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
What if *he's* not the problem?
I hesitate to post this, having recently shifted most of my social media presence away from political commentary and into the much more satisfying realm of puppy pics. So, in the style of John Oliver: if you get through this with me, I'll post a pic of Penny Lane at the end. Deal?
Alright, so -- you've probably heard, there's a certain casino-owner-turned-reality-TV-"star"-turned-presidential candidate who has been getting a lot of attention and a lot of votes. This person, whose name I have steadfastly refused to write on the internet in order to avoid any further inflation of his already bloated ego, has been inciting violence and making statements that are blatantly racist, sexist, xenophobic, and just about every other type of -ist and -phobic there is. All of this, it seems, to the thunderous applause and laughter of a rather large group of fellow citizens.
This has drawn a lot of comparisons to 1930s Germany and the meteoric ascendance of another monstrously masterful conductor of the xenophobic orchestra, whose name has now become so synonymous with evil that we can hurl it at people as a political ad hominem, with or without any understanding of the context in which he rose to power.
And it seems to be the widely held opinion, from just about everyone I'm friends with in material or Facebook reality, that stopping this particular orange-haired fellow and his fascist band of followers is The Thing that must happen in order to save America from impending doom and destruction.
And I'm super suspicious of that sort of language for basically the same reason I'm suspicious of Mr. "We'll make Mexico pay for the wall."
I'm suspicious -- or at least I am if I'm thinking clearly enough and being mindful enough to reflect for a second -- anytime anybody proposes that the problem, the thing that must be fixed, is that guy over there, those people over there. I've heard this person's supporters called ignorant, idiotic, dangerous, even vermin. That's language dangerously close to the type of language we decry when it is coming from their lips. That's language that says, "We'd all be better off if those people didn't exist anymore....not that I'm saying we should do anything about it, mind you, just saying...."
Remember that the eugenics folks were all about eliminating imbeciles and improving the intellect of the country. Just notice that for a second.
A brief story. Leigh and I were talking the other day, and she wondered out loud about who the people are who are voting for this fellow -- since she doesn't know anyone, personally, who is voting for the guy. Same for me, I said. And that strikes me as indicative of a problem -- the same problem, I suspect, that makes a failed businessman and reality TV star such a popular figure to begin with.
There are such huge divides, huge chasms in this country. And they are often marked, yes, by race, by class, by sexuality, by gender identity, by educational attainment. All these things are true. These things lead to the type of political clustering -- aided by the social media echo chamber -- that make it possible for me to not know a single person voting for the leading candidate of a major political party.
But deep down under that lurks something else -- something, I suspect, that is not so easy to blame on them over there.
I think we've got a shame problem and an empathy problem.
And by "we," I mean, "a group of people that includes me, myself, I, this guy right here, writing this blog post."
I think we -- I think I -- have a really hard time putting myself into the place of people I disagree with, or of people who are different than me, and I think when you start to probe around as to why that might be, other than just sort of a general human-condition-we-are-mysteries-unto-each-other thing, the reason is shame.
To put myself in someone else's place is to risk exposing my own uncertainty, or my own weakness, or my own vulnerability -- or, say, my own racism, my own sexism, my own xenophobia -- and that is really quite terrifying, so better to yell or to laugh scornfully.
And so the divisions grow deeper, and our reactions to each other grow more extreme, and it's all quite horrendously predictable and sad.
Now, I want to back up and be really clear about some things that I'm not saying. I'm not, not even for a second, condemning the protesters at the rally in Chicago and elsewhere. I'm not admonishing those who are truly fearful for the violence and oppression that might be directed at them or their families. I'm not suggesting that people should not organize, or should not be about the work of proposing political alternatives that are not based in narratives of fear, anger, or hate.
Yes to protest. Yes to organizing. Yes to a politics of hope.
But let's be careful, yes? Let's be careful not to become the thing that we fear so much.
And let's remember that the xenophobia and racism and sexism and all the other -isms and -phobias this election have brought to the surface did not suddenly appear over night.
Let's remember that they have been here, dwelling with us -- our national shadow, so to speak.
Let's remember that the Wall we're freaking out has already been built in places -- I've seen it, touched it, compared it to the one in Palestine, which I've also seen and touched, which we helped build with our tax dollars.
Let's remember that the carpet bombing threats that we're so offended by, the war crimes being proposed that we are quick to condemn -- these things have already happened, are happening still, and on our dime, and without such a widespread reaction. You know. To the real thing. Because, really, please, tell me the difference, with a straight face, between "You've got to kill the terrorists' families" and drone strikes in Pakistan.
But more than all of that, more than any particular issue that I could name, what I'm suggesting is that all of this might be dwelling much closer than we might care to admit -- hidden, under layers of shame, in our own hearts.
And that if we can uncover that, if we can gently tear open those layers of shame, we might just find those terrifying forces disarmed. We might just rediscover our capacity for empathy and for solidarity and for care.
It's what Christian theologians might refer to as "standing under the cross." Realizing our own complicity, our own involvement in violence, our own need for forgiveness. And then finding ourselves, somewhat miraculously, forgiven. Free from shame. Free to love.
And that, I suspect, will go much further towards healing this hurting country and this hurting world than shutting up those terrifying people over there.
And that's about as far as I'll go with this, for today.
Now, for your promised Penny pic:
Alright, so -- you've probably heard, there's a certain casino-owner-turned-reality-TV-"star"-turned-presidential candidate who has been getting a lot of attention and a lot of votes. This person, whose name I have steadfastly refused to write on the internet in order to avoid any further inflation of his already bloated ego, has been inciting violence and making statements that are blatantly racist, sexist, xenophobic, and just about every other type of -ist and -phobic there is. All of this, it seems, to the thunderous applause and laughter of a rather large group of fellow citizens.
This has drawn a lot of comparisons to 1930s Germany and the meteoric ascendance of another monstrously masterful conductor of the xenophobic orchestra, whose name has now become so synonymous with evil that we can hurl it at people as a political ad hominem, with or without any understanding of the context in which he rose to power.
And it seems to be the widely held opinion, from just about everyone I'm friends with in material or Facebook reality, that stopping this particular orange-haired fellow and his fascist band of followers is The Thing that must happen in order to save America from impending doom and destruction.
And I'm super suspicious of that sort of language for basically the same reason I'm suspicious of Mr. "We'll make Mexico pay for the wall."
I'm suspicious -- or at least I am if I'm thinking clearly enough and being mindful enough to reflect for a second -- anytime anybody proposes that the problem, the thing that must be fixed, is that guy over there, those people over there. I've heard this person's supporters called ignorant, idiotic, dangerous, even vermin. That's language dangerously close to the type of language we decry when it is coming from their lips. That's language that says, "We'd all be better off if those people didn't exist anymore....not that I'm saying we should do anything about it, mind you, just saying...."
Remember that the eugenics folks were all about eliminating imbeciles and improving the intellect of the country. Just notice that for a second.
A brief story. Leigh and I were talking the other day, and she wondered out loud about who the people are who are voting for this fellow -- since she doesn't know anyone, personally, who is voting for the guy. Same for me, I said. And that strikes me as indicative of a problem -- the same problem, I suspect, that makes a failed businessman and reality TV star such a popular figure to begin with.
There are such huge divides, huge chasms in this country. And they are often marked, yes, by race, by class, by sexuality, by gender identity, by educational attainment. All these things are true. These things lead to the type of political clustering -- aided by the social media echo chamber -- that make it possible for me to not know a single person voting for the leading candidate of a major political party.
But deep down under that lurks something else -- something, I suspect, that is not so easy to blame on them over there.
I think we've got a shame problem and an empathy problem.
And by "we," I mean, "a group of people that includes me, myself, I, this guy right here, writing this blog post."
I think we -- I think I -- have a really hard time putting myself into the place of people I disagree with, or of people who are different than me, and I think when you start to probe around as to why that might be, other than just sort of a general human-condition-we-are-mysteries-unto-each-other thing, the reason is shame.
To put myself in someone else's place is to risk exposing my own uncertainty, or my own weakness, or my own vulnerability -- or, say, my own racism, my own sexism, my own xenophobia -- and that is really quite terrifying, so better to yell or to laugh scornfully.
And so the divisions grow deeper, and our reactions to each other grow more extreme, and it's all quite horrendously predictable and sad.
Now, I want to back up and be really clear about some things that I'm not saying. I'm not, not even for a second, condemning the protesters at the rally in Chicago and elsewhere. I'm not admonishing those who are truly fearful for the violence and oppression that might be directed at them or their families. I'm not suggesting that people should not organize, or should not be about the work of proposing political alternatives that are not based in narratives of fear, anger, or hate.
Yes to protest. Yes to organizing. Yes to a politics of hope.
But let's be careful, yes? Let's be careful not to become the thing that we fear so much.
And let's remember that the xenophobia and racism and sexism and all the other -isms and -phobias this election have brought to the surface did not suddenly appear over night.
Let's remember that they have been here, dwelling with us -- our national shadow, so to speak.
Let's remember that the Wall we're freaking out has already been built in places -- I've seen it, touched it, compared it to the one in Palestine, which I've also seen and touched, which we helped build with our tax dollars.
Let's remember that the carpet bombing threats that we're so offended by, the war crimes being proposed that we are quick to condemn -- these things have already happened, are happening still, and on our dime, and without such a widespread reaction. You know. To the real thing. Because, really, please, tell me the difference, with a straight face, between "You've got to kill the terrorists' families" and drone strikes in Pakistan.
But more than all of that, more than any particular issue that I could name, what I'm suggesting is that all of this might be dwelling much closer than we might care to admit -- hidden, under layers of shame, in our own hearts.
And that if we can uncover that, if we can gently tear open those layers of shame, we might just find those terrifying forces disarmed. We might just rediscover our capacity for empathy and for solidarity and for care.
It's what Christian theologians might refer to as "standing under the cross." Realizing our own complicity, our own involvement in violence, our own need for forgiveness. And then finding ourselves, somewhat miraculously, forgiven. Free from shame. Free to love.
And that, I suspect, will go much further towards healing this hurting country and this hurting world than shutting up those terrifying people over there.
And that's about as far as I'll go with this, for today.
Now, for your promised Penny pic:
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Transitions, Lenten Journeys, and New Life for the Ol' Blog
Hi friends -- it's been too long since I've posted regularly on here. If you're still reading, thanks for sticking with me!
You might already know, but this has been a time of massive transition for me. Leigh and I graduated in May and got married in September; by October we'd moved to Georgetown University to begin a new position together as Chaplains-in-Residence in the New South freshman residence hall. During that same time period, I served for a semester as the interim United Methodist Chaplain at American University, since our full-time chaplain was on sabbatical for the semester. I also came on as a board member for Friends of Sabeel North America. Leigh started another new job during that semester. And we were both TAing classes at Wesley Seminary. It was a full and rich semester. It was also tremendously busy, and more than a little overwhelming.
As the new year began, I started to realize that I needed to take a deep breath and step back from a few things. I've learned before that I need to take some care with myself, to not get in over my head emotionally and mentally. It's a health issue for me, and it's also a soul issue. When I'm overwhelmed, I don't function well, and I don't love well, either.
Because of that, and because of some other discernment that I've been doing, I made a tough decision. I've stepped down from my position as an Associate Chaplain at AU.* February 28th was my last Sunday there. I'm sad, and will miss a community that I've been part of for a long time -- four years in an official capacity, but really more like 7 years, since I first came to DC. I also feel a sense of peace about the decision, and am excited to see how that ministry is going to continue to grow in love, service, and welcome.
This was definitely a big decision for me, but it's just one part of a deeper and wider sense I've had that I'm in a time of transition and need to, for lack of a more eloquent word, do this transition. Getting married, moving together with Leigh to start a shared position, and most recently getting a dog** -- these are big, big shifts from where I was a few years ago. I think I need some time to honor that. Some time to learn how to be a husband (and a puppy dad) and to take some breaths before plunging into whatever the next adventure is going to be.
And I suppose that's the Lenten practice that I've taken up, to be in this, to be mindful of this journey I'm on. William Bridges suggests two questions for people who are in transition, particularly work transition: "What is it time to let go of in my life right now?" and "What is standing backstage, in the wings of my life, waiting to make its entrance?"***
So during Lent I'm pondering those questions. And taking some time to pray and to reflect and to write and to think.
And to play with a puppy, which sure helps.
Ministry at Georgetown continues (you can read updates from Leigh and I about that here), as does TAing at Wesley. I'm also going to be working on a few writing projects -- some of the fruit of which I may be posting on here. And I'm going to try to update this blog at least once a week, now that I'll have a bit more down time, so you'll be seeing more from me on here.
So stay tuned for more writing and thoughts here -- and if you want the puppy picture hookup, friend me on Facebook!
I am grateful for all of you, and overflowing with gratitude for all of the amazing opportunities and gifts in my life.
Grace and peace,
David
___________________________________________________________________________
* Many of you donated so generously to the Next Generation Campaign at AU. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I benefited directly from that support, and now the campaign continues to grow. The vision remains to support a new staff position at AU in the coming year. I don't know exactly what that will look like, but I bet it will be cool, and I'm sure they'll be updating the Next Generation website when they have more details.
** Specifically, this adorable puppy:
*** That's from Bridges' book Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes (DeCapo, 2004), pg. 87.
You might already know, but this has been a time of massive transition for me. Leigh and I graduated in May and got married in September; by October we'd moved to Georgetown University to begin a new position together as Chaplains-in-Residence in the New South freshman residence hall. During that same time period, I served for a semester as the interim United Methodist Chaplain at American University, since our full-time chaplain was on sabbatical for the semester. I also came on as a board member for Friends of Sabeel North America. Leigh started another new job during that semester. And we were both TAing classes at Wesley Seminary. It was a full and rich semester. It was also tremendously busy, and more than a little overwhelming.
As the new year began, I started to realize that I needed to take a deep breath and step back from a few things. I've learned before that I need to take some care with myself, to not get in over my head emotionally and mentally. It's a health issue for me, and it's also a soul issue. When I'm overwhelmed, I don't function well, and I don't love well, either.
Because of that, and because of some other discernment that I've been doing, I made a tough decision. I've stepped down from my position as an Associate Chaplain at AU.* February 28th was my last Sunday there. I'm sad, and will miss a community that I've been part of for a long time -- four years in an official capacity, but really more like 7 years, since I first came to DC. I also feel a sense of peace about the decision, and am excited to see how that ministry is going to continue to grow in love, service, and welcome.
This was definitely a big decision for me, but it's just one part of a deeper and wider sense I've had that I'm in a time of transition and need to, for lack of a more eloquent word, do this transition. Getting married, moving together with Leigh to start a shared position, and most recently getting a dog** -- these are big, big shifts from where I was a few years ago. I think I need some time to honor that. Some time to learn how to be a husband (and a puppy dad) and to take some breaths before plunging into whatever the next adventure is going to be.
And I suppose that's the Lenten practice that I've taken up, to be in this, to be mindful of this journey I'm on. William Bridges suggests two questions for people who are in transition, particularly work transition: "What is it time to let go of in my life right now?" and "What is standing backstage, in the wings of my life, waiting to make its entrance?"***
So during Lent I'm pondering those questions. And taking some time to pray and to reflect and to write and to think.
And to play with a puppy, which sure helps.
Ministry at Georgetown continues (you can read updates from Leigh and I about that here), as does TAing at Wesley. I'm also going to be working on a few writing projects -- some of the fruit of which I may be posting on here. And I'm going to try to update this blog at least once a week, now that I'll have a bit more down time, so you'll be seeing more from me on here.
So stay tuned for more writing and thoughts here -- and if you want the puppy picture hookup, friend me on Facebook!
I am grateful for all of you, and overflowing with gratitude for all of the amazing opportunities and gifts in my life.
Grace and peace,
David
___________________________________________________________________________
* Many of you donated so generously to the Next Generation Campaign at AU. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I benefited directly from that support, and now the campaign continues to grow. The vision remains to support a new staff position at AU in the coming year. I don't know exactly what that will look like, but I bet it will be cool, and I'm sure they'll be updating the Next Generation website when they have more details.
** Specifically, this adorable puppy:
*** That's from Bridges' book Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes (DeCapo, 2004), pg. 87.
Monday, February 15, 2016
A sermon, an interview, and a Lenten reflection
Hi folks!
I haven't had the chance to update the blog in awhile, so just wanted to share a few things with you.
-- I gave a sermon last night for the AU Methodists, part of our "Dystopian Lent" sermon series. You can read the text here, or listen to the audio:
-- Leigh interviewed me for her Patheos blog. You can read the interview, "The Fidelity of Limits," here.
-- Leigh and I have also started a blog to share reflections and information with our Georgetown University students. Here's our first reflection, about Lent and the goodness of limits.
Hoping to post some more updates and reflections soon! Thanks for reading/listening.
I haven't had the chance to update the blog in awhile, so just wanted to share a few things with you.
-- I gave a sermon last night for the AU Methodists, part of our "Dystopian Lent" sermon series. You can read the text here, or listen to the audio:
-- Leigh interviewed me for her Patheos blog. You can read the interview, "The Fidelity of Limits," here.
-- Leigh and I have also started a blog to share reflections and information with our Georgetown University students. Here's our first reflection, about Lent and the goodness of limits.
Hoping to post some more updates and reflections soon! Thanks for reading/listening.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Some recent snazz
Hi folks --
Haven't been doing a good job of keeping the blog updated, but a few things to check out:
-- all of my sermons from our "Big Questions" series at AU are available on the AU Methodist website (with audio available on my Soundcloud site)
-- Jason Wiedel was kind enough to include me in his recent MediaScorch podcast about Christianity and mental health; check it out
-- stay tuned for more sermon stuff and an upcoming Advent series!
Haven't been doing a good job of keeping the blog updated, but a few things to check out:
-- all of my sermons from our "Big Questions" series at AU are available on the AU Methodist website (with audio available on my Soundcloud site)
-- Jason Wiedel was kind enough to include me in his recent MediaScorch podcast about Christianity and mental health; check it out
-- stay tuned for more sermon stuff and an upcoming Advent series!
Saturday, October 3, 2015
There are funerals I never want to officiate.
It was December of 2013.
I was in the college lounge at the church -- just across the street from campus -- when one of the students' phones buzzed.
There was a pause. Then a short intake of breath.
"It's an alert form public safety. There might be a shooter on campus."
Hold, there. Let that be disruptive for a moment. "A shooter." This is a common enough occurrence in our country that we have a shorthand colloquialism for something that ought to be difficult to imagine, let alone discuss.
"Ok," I said.
Non-anxious presence, they tell us in seminary. Be calm. 'Hold the office.'
"You all stay here. Lock the door. I'll go make sure the rest of the church knows."
We checked outer doors.
"This church has an awful lot of doors," one of the pastors said to me in passing. I laughed. We need a term other than gallows humor. I've never seen the gallows. The phrase doesn't mean much to me. This was handgun humor. Catastrophe comedy.
Back in the college lounge, the students checked in on social media. "Everyone ok?" one posted on our group page. One by one, others responded.
Finally, information began flowing in. False alarm. Everything is ok.
Everything is ok.
This time.
I was in the college lounge at the church -- just across the street from campus -- when one of the students' phones buzzed.
There was a pause. Then a short intake of breath.
"It's an alert form public safety. There might be a shooter on campus."
Hold, there. Let that be disruptive for a moment. "A shooter." This is a common enough occurrence in our country that we have a shorthand colloquialism for something that ought to be difficult to imagine, let alone discuss.
"Ok," I said.
Non-anxious presence, they tell us in seminary. Be calm. 'Hold the office.'
"You all stay here. Lock the door. I'll go make sure the rest of the church knows."
We checked outer doors.
"This church has an awful lot of doors," one of the pastors said to me in passing. I laughed. We need a term other than gallows humor. I've never seen the gallows. The phrase doesn't mean much to me. This was handgun humor. Catastrophe comedy.
Back in the college lounge, the students checked in on social media. "Everyone ok?" one posted on our group page. One by one, others responded.
Finally, information began flowing in. False alarm. Everything is ok.
Everything is ok.
This time.
---
In this line of vocation -- what one author ironically refers to as being a "professional religious person," a phrase not without its share of self-critique -- funerals are an assumed part of the job. Death is a fact of life -- as it turns out, one of the few definite facts of life -- and being present with people in times of grief and death is one of the sacred spaces that pastors and chaplains are invited into. We stand in awe on holy ground, and often that holy ground is a place of pain.
In seminary, we are given guidance in officiating funerals. How to hold pastoral presence. Things not to say. How to pay attention to family dynamics and cultural differences. How to create space for lament.
In seminary, we are given guidance in officiating funerals. How to hold pastoral presence. Things not to say. How to pay attention to family dynamics and cultural differences. How to create space for lament.
Funerals are a part of the role, no less than weddings and baptisms and preaching and (in campus ministry, at least) Costco runs for absurd amounts of s'mores supplies.
But there are funerals I never want to officiate.
But there are funerals I never want to officiate.
There is no reason, no goddamn reason in the whole wide world, that I should ever have to plan a service, write a homily, hold the pastoral office, at a funeral for a college student who was shot and killed because we, as a country, have decided that we love guns more than life.
In Oregon, this weekend, there are people doing just that.
There shouldn't be.
If I continue in this church-thing -- and somehow, it seems to me that no matter the frustrations of a given week or month, I keep coming back to this odd gathering of messy people who cluster around a table and look for God in bread and grape juice and each other and mere inadequate words -- I will probably officiate many funerals. I pray that I will be given the grace to do so with awe and respect for the sacredness of such moments of grief and celebration, pain and release.
But there are funerals I never want to officiate. Here are five things you can do so that I never have to.
But there are funerals I never want to officiate. Here are five things you can do so that I never have to.
Or, here's one: call you legislators this week. Tell them your friend David is a college chaplain. Tell them it's his job to pray and to be with people in times of mourning. Tell them it's their job to make sure that he doesn't have to do that for the families of students who died because we, as a country, refused to take any common sense measures to end gun violence.
Tell them I'll keep doing my job, today and tomorrow and the next day.
Tell them to do theirs.
Tell them I'll keep doing my job, today and tomorrow and the next day.
Tell them to do theirs.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Sermon -- "Who am I...and what am I doing with my life?"
Hi friends -- I'm posting my sermon texts over at the AU Methodist website these days, but figured I'd share the audio here for you. This is part of a sermon series we're doing called "Big Questions" -- you can read more about that (as well as see what questions we're considering and submit your own questions) here.
Anyway, Sunday's question was "Who am I...and what am I doing with my life?" I'd say I pretty much 100% answered this one, no ambiguities or questions remain:
(that was a joke):
The text is available here.
It's a real privilege to be able to serve with the students at American, and to get the chance to offer these sorts of reflections. My position at AU is funded by donations, so if you like these kinds of reflections, you can help keep them coming by supporting our Next Generation Campaign!
Anyway, Sunday's question was "Who am I...and what am I doing with my life?" I'd say I pretty much 100% answered this one, no ambiguities or questions remain:
(that was a joke):
The text is available here.
It's a real privilege to be able to serve with the students at American, and to get the chance to offer these sorts of reflections. My position at AU is funded by donations, so if you like these kinds of reflections, you can help keep them coming by supporting our Next Generation Campaign!
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Laverne and Esther (a sermon about privilege)
This is the sermon I preached at Emmanuel UMC in Laurel, MD this morning. I was invited to preach as part of a sermon series called "Old Testament Yearbook," with each week dedicated to a different character from the Hebrew Bible. I was asked to preach on Esther. I decided to share some lessons about privilege that we can learn from Esther -- and from Laverne Cox.
A few months ago, the notoriously short attention span of the
U.S. media focused for a brief moment on the experience of transgender people –
folks who don’t identify with the gender they were assigned at birth. The
catalyst for this momentary fascination with a group that is often ignored or
mocked in media representation was Caitlyn Jenner’s decision to come out as
trans and subsequently to appear on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine. I didn’t quite understand the media buzz; my fiancée
had to explain to me that prior to coming out as trans, Jenner was well-known and
loved as a Cold War-era Olympic decathalon gold medalist and All-American Wheaties
box celebrity.
I don’t
usually spend a lot of time reflecting on the U.S. celebrity scene, and this is
the first and likely the last time that I’ve ever mentioned Vanity Fair in a sermon. But in all of
the buzz around Caitlyn Jenner’s cover shoot, one response in particular caught
my attention. The actress Laverne Cox, star of the hit HBO series Orange is the New Black and herself a
trans woman, posted a reflection on her blog, of which I will quote only a
brief excerpt. She writes:
“I am so moved by all the love and support Caitlyn is
receiving….Yes, Caitlyn looks amazing and is beautiful but what I think what is
most beautiful about her is her heart and soul, the ways she has allowed the world
into her vulnerabilities….For me it is necessary everyday to celebrate every
aspect of myself especially those things about myself that don’t align with
other people’s ideas about what is beautiful….Most trans folks don’t have the
privileges Caitlyn and I have now have. It is those trans folks we must
continue to lift up, get them access to healthcare, jobs, housing, safe
streets, safe schools and homes for our young people. We must lift up the
stories of those most at risk, statistically trans people of color who are poor
and working class. I have hoped over the past few years that the incredible
love I have received from the public can translate to the lives of all trans
folks.”[i]
I was struck
by the power of this reflection. I should mention, for those unfamiliar with
Ms. Cox, that she is a woman of color. She is someone who has faced multiple forms
of societal stigma – as a woman, as a trans person, and as a person of color –
using the media spotlight to lift up the needs and voices of those with less
privilege than herself.
I – a white,
straight, cisgender male – find myself deeply humbled by Ms. Cox’s witness. How
easy it is for me, on a daily basis, to forget my privilege, the unearned
status and power granted to me by USAmerican society. For me to learn a lesson
about the importance of using one’s status to amplify the voices of those less
privileged – and to learn this lesson from a transwoman of color – is to enter
into a space of self-reflection and repentance that I associate with
encountering the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Ms. Cox does
not identify as a Christian. She has spoken in interviews about her upbringing
in the African Methodist Episcopal Church, and how she has come to understand
and practice her spirituality outside of the institution of American
Christianity.[ii] But to me, her words
strike a deep, resonating chord within the prophetic and pastoral tradition of
our religious heritage. In her refusal to hide behind the power of celebrity
status or beauty standards, and her decision to identity instead with those who
share aspects of identity often targeted for violence, Laverne Cox reminds me
of another celebrity woman: the biblical character of Esther.
The book of
Esther, as many commentators have pointed out, is not a historical record, nor
is it particularly theological – God does not appear in the story at all.[iii]
Rather, it’s something like a fairy tale – though a pretty grim one, if you’ll
excuse the pun. It is a story of palace intrigues and political rivalries, of
gender and ethnic violence, of the folly of power and the surprising ability of
individuals to challenge the status quo. The main character, Esther, is a young,
status-less Jewish woman who becomes a princess because she happens to meet the
objectifying beauty standards of the Persian court. This, indeed, would seem
like a fairy-tale-princess dream come true, if not for the horrifying violence
on the horizon. In the scene which we read this morning, Esther’s cousin Mordecai
informs her of a plot in the royal court to massacre all of their people – for no
reason other than a petty rivalry between Mordecai and Haman, the king’s chief
courtier.
At first, Esther, who has hidden her Jewish identity from the
court, reacts defensively. She sends him new clothes, so that he will stop embarrassing
himself with his public acts of mourning and protest. She tries to explain to
him that she is a marginalized individual, with no power to change things in
the king’s court. Her reaction is, I think, quite understandable – she is
young, and scared, and sticking one’s neck out in this situation is likely to
end with that neck on a chopping block.
And Mordecai
tells her, essentially: “Look, don’t think that your status will protect you.
You’re one of us. We will all share the same fate.” And then, that powerful
line: “Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such a time as this.”
And
suddenly, it’s as if something shifts inside of Esther. She has been largely
reactive up to this point in the story, but now she orders her older, male
cousin to take action; she commands a fast; and, over the course of the
following chapters, she sets into place a clever strategy to get the king on
her side and to disrupt the plot against her people.
The story,
like many fairy tales, ends violently, with a happy ever after for the good
guys and a horrifying end for the bad guys. But it’s not the climax of the
story that interests me today; rather, it’s this moment when Esther comes to
see with new eyes and speak with a new, powerful voice – or should I say, her
own voice, a voice that must have been waiting inside of her, longing to be let
out. Esther stops hiding behind the privileged aspects of her identity and instead
chooses to act from her most vulnerable, endangered identity. It is that identity which creates connection
with others, rather than isolating her in the illusion of security and the desperate
loneliness of affluence. She turns down the false promises of upward mobility, exchanging
them for the risky action of societally-downward solidarity. In doing so,
Esther is able to use her status and privilege to affect change, to challenge
violent systems of power, and to save her people.
Esther’s insight speaks
powerfully into our situation today, as a church and as a society. We are
terrified of vulnerability, terrified of shame – and, paradoxically, this
prevents us, particularly those of us with a high level of status and
privilege, from naming and claiming our own ability to make change. And so in
2014 when women responded to the misogynistic manifesto of a mass shooter in California
by posting stories on social media with the tag, #YesAllWomen, many men
responded – not by joining together to end sexist violence – but rather by
starting their own campaign, called #NotAllMen.” When the #BlackLivesMatter
movement began, protesting police violence against unarmed African American men
and women, many white folks responded – not by joining the effort to end police
violence and racism – but instead by insisting on the slogan “All Lives Matter.”
In fact, just recently, several Black Lives Matter signs hanging outside of churches in Maryland and DC were
vandalized to erase the word “black.”[iv]
That’s privilege at work, denying rather
than challenging violence and
discrimination. And meanwhile, the church in the U.S. spends its time fighting
amongst itself and worrying about whether or not it will survive for another
few years.
Do we see how different
this is from the decision of Esther? Do we see how much we have to learn from
the risk-taking young princess of this Jewish fairy tale?
Centuries after the
fabled Persian court portrayed in the story of Esther, another young Jew grappled
with questions of power and vulnerability, upward mobility versus downward solidarity.
Writing to the church in Philippi, the apostle Paul admonished them: “Let the
same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of
God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied
himself.” Interestingly, modern translators have added the word “though,” which
does not exist in the original Greek. We read, “Christ who, though he was in the form of God,
emptied himself.” But the actual text reads something like, “Christ who was in
the form of God, emptying himself.” We decided
that there was some sort of contradiction between who God is and the idea of
emptying oneself, of identifying with the vulnerable and the marginalized. We decided that choosing to give up
power and status is somehow out of character for God.[v]
But the Christ we
Christians claim to follow, the God we claim to put our faith in, does not shy
away from vulnerability. This God does not hide behind power or status or
beauty in order to avoid risk. This God, this Christ, identifies with the
threatened and the excluded. This God, this Christ, tells us that beauty and
power and status are nothing except
opportunities to speak out for and with those who have been denied such
privilege.
And when I am tempted
to say, “Look, I don’t really have that much power. I can’t really change
things. It’s too risky. I’m too vulnerable.”
Or when churches wring
anxious hands about shrinking budgets and empty pews, wondering whether we will
ever ascend back to our former glory at the center of societal prestige.
This God, I believe, speaks
– though just like in the book of Esther, not always directly. God speaks through
the scandalous grief and protest of those whose people are threatened with
violence, through young women who find their voice to challenge the status quo,
through trans women of color, through countless marginalized people all over
our land – this God speaks.
And says:
Perhaps, you have come
to your current place of privilege for just such a time as this.
Amen.
Amen.
[i]
From Laverne Cox’s tumblr blog: http://lavernecox.tumblr.com/post/120503412651/on-may-29-2014-the-issue-of-timemagazine
[ii] “Laverne
Talks Spirituality with Miss Ross Live”: http://www.missross.com/laverne-talks-spirituality-ross-live/
[iii] Sidnie
White Crawford, “Esther Introduction,” in The
New Interpreter’s Study Bible (Nashville: Abingdon, 2003), 689-690.
[iv] Petula
Dvorak, “The ugly message behind erasing ‘Black’ from ‘Black Lives Matter’
signs,” The Washington Post, 6 August
2015, available: http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/the-ugly-message-behind-erasing-black-from-black-lives-matter-signs/2015/08/06/1d87a892-3c57-11e5-9c2d-ed991d848c48_story.html
Monday, August 3, 2015
Sermon -- "Jesus' Name"
This is a sermon I preached on Aug 2, 2015, at Dumbarton United Methodist Church in Washington, DC. It was part of a sermon series called "Who Do You Say Jesus Is?" Each sermon in the series focused on a different name or title that Christians have given Jesus. My sermon focused on the subversive nature of Jesus' own name. The texts were Joshua 6:1,15-21 and Matthew 1:18-21.
Over the past few weeks, Dumbarton has been doing sermon series called “Who Do You Say Jesus Is?” which has looked at different ways that Christians refer to Jesus. You’ve heard sermons about Jesus as the Word of God, as Lord, as Lamb of God, as Emmanuel, and as Messiah. When Mary Kay invited me to preach this morning, she told me I could continue this series by talking about a name or title for Jesus that has particular meaning for me.
Over the past few weeks, Dumbarton has been doing sermon series called “Who Do You Say Jesus Is?” which has looked at different ways that Christians refer to Jesus. You’ve heard sermons about Jesus as the Word of God, as Lord, as Lamb of God, as Emmanuel, and as Messiah. When Mary Kay invited me to preach this morning, she told me I could continue this series by talking about a name or title for Jesus that has particular meaning for me.
So I decided that this morning, I
will talk about the name that I most often use to refer to Jesus.
Which is: Jesus.
You might already have a sense that
in the Hebrew and Greek in which the Jewish and Christian scriptures were
written, names have importance and meaning. You might remember that Isaac means
“God laughs,” because Sarah thought the idea of having a child at her age was
so funny that she had to chuckle at the thought. Or that the Exodus story
relates Moses name to the Hebrew for “draw out,” since he was pulled out of the
water. You might remember that Abram’s name changes to Abraham, that Simon gets
dubbed “Peter,” meaning “Rock,” or that Saul’s name changes to Paul. Of course,
you also might not have heard any of those things before, in which case you can
check out some of these stories and – to quote LeVar Burton from Reading Rainbow – “You don’t have to
take my word for it!”
Names have meaning, and Jesus’ name is no exception, although the way our texts are translated tends to obscure this fact. The name “Jesus,” you see, is an Anglicized version of the Latinized form of the Greek rendition of the Hebrew name “Yeshua.” (Did you get all of that?) While the gospels were written in Greek, Jesus and his disciples – like other 1st century Palestinian Jews – would likely have been most at home in the Aramaic language, a Semitic tongue closely related to Hebrew. So while we’re used to calling Jesus “Jesus,” his friends would have called him something like “Yeshua.”
Names have meaning, and Jesus’ name is no exception, although the way our texts are translated tends to obscure this fact. The name “Jesus,” you see, is an Anglicized version of the Latinized form of the Greek rendition of the Hebrew name “Yeshua.” (Did you get all of that?) While the gospels were written in Greek, Jesus and his disciples – like other 1st century Palestinian Jews – would likely have been most at home in the Aramaic language, a Semitic tongue closely related to Hebrew. So while we’re used to calling Jesus “Jesus,” his friends would have called him something like “Yeshua.”
Yeshua, as it turns out, can also be
anglicized into the common name “Joshua.” The Jesus of the gospels and the
Joshua of the Hebrew Bible share a name. And that name has a meaning. It comes from a Hebrew root meaning, “rescue”
or “deliver,” combined with the first syllable of the name of God. So Jesus and
Joshua’s name means, “Yahweh delivers,” or “Yahweh is salvation.”
The translation of Matthew’s gospel
that we heard this morning does a good job of representing this meaning when it
says: “you are to name him Jesus – Salvation! – because he will save the people
from their sins.” We’re getting an English translation of a Greek translation
of a Hebrew play on words. Isn’t that fun?
The author of Matthew’s gospel wants
to make sure the reader knows, explicitly, that the name “Yeshua” isn’t just a
name. It’s connected to what this Jesus will do. The name this newborn messiah
is *called by* is directly related to the mission he is *called to.*
Now, us North American Protestant
Christians are so used to a certain narrative of how Jesus saves people from
their sins that we tend to just zip right over that line from Matthew. Whatever
you might personally think about the way the church has traditionally taught, a
certain understanding of sin and atonement has tended to dominate the
conversation so that we miss the implications of this little sentence in
Matthew’s gospel.
Matthew’s gospel, however, takes
great pains to place Jesus in line with Jewish tradition. In Matthew, the first
thing we hear about Jesus the Messiah is that he is “the son of David, the son
of Abraham.” In Matthew, Jesus goes up on a mountain to teach, recalling Mount
Sinai where the Law was given to Moses. There are more citations of Hebrew
Bible passages in Matthew than in any other gospel, many of them accompanied by
the formula: “This took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the prophet.”
So when Matthew’s gospel says the Messiah is named Yeshua, “Yahweh saves,”
because he will save the people from their sins, its original readers – most of
whom, remember, would have been faithful Jews, not Gentile converts – would have
had an instant moment of association with another figure named Yeshua.
Joshua.
The guy we heard from earlier,
commanding the people: “Now shout! Yahweh has given you the city! The city—and everything in it—is devoted to
Yahweh for destruction.” Joshua, the guy leading the charge when the Israelites
raze Jericho to the ground, killing all the men, women, children, and, for good
measure, the cattle, sheep, donkeys, and pet parakeets.
Joshua’s name – Yeshua – means “God
will save,” and throughout the book dedicated to his exploits we get a pretty
good sense of the type of saving that God is expected to do. It involves a
whole lot of putting things to the sword and to the torch. A whole lot of
saving the people from their sins of disobedience by making sure they know
that, without total obedience to God, they will not succeed in their military
conquest of the people who stand between them and the land they want.
Now, I could say a lot about the
book of Joshua. Many theologians, such as American Indian scholar George Tinker
and Palestinian priest Naim Ateek, have critiqued the conquest narratives of
Joshua, arguing that for indigenous
peoples, such theologizing of conquest has justified subjugation and ethnic
cleansing. Other theologians have taken pains to point out that Joshua is not
historical record, but rather some combination of mythic account and
theological argument for the power of Israel’s God.
But Matthew’s audience would not
have read up on the latest in historical critical scholarship of the book of
Joshua. They would have known the stories, and they would have heard, “you will
call the child Yeshua, because he will save the people from their sins,” and they
would have known exactly what kind of saving this Jesus-character was going to
get up to. They would have looked around at their own context – in which the
Roman Empire had just destroyed the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem, burned it to
the ground, crucified anyone involved in recent anti-imperial activity, and
sent others into exile – and they would have made some assumptions about the
type of good news that would be announced by this Jesus, this Yeshua, this
first-century-Joshua.
And they would have been quite surprised
by the story that unfolds throughout the rest of the gospel.
Because it turns out that what Jesus
is *called to* is a complete subversion of the name he is *called by.*
It turns out that the type of
salvation and deliverance announced by this Jesus is nonviolent rather than
violent. That it’s found in solidarity rather than dominance. In seeming
weakness rather than coercive strength. In taking up the cross rather than
avenging those who have been put to the cross. In identifying with and loving
the Other rather than purifying ourselves by expunging the Other from our
midst.
Jesus takes all the religious and
political assumptions of his followers and turns them upside down, dumps them
right on their heads.
And that, I would argue, is what Jesus
is up to no matter what name or label we try to apply. Word, Lord, Lamb, Messiah
– you name it, Jesus subverts it. Jesus takes all of the things that we try to call him and turns them inside-out, into
the question of what we are called to.
Now,
if you’re a Dumbarton regular, this isn’t exactly news to you. You’ve heard
plenty of sermons about how Jesus’ nonviolent ethic of compassion and justice
challenges and subverts the assumptions of good religious folks.
But I want to go a step farther and suggest that one of the
things God is still up to in our midst is subverting our religious language,
turning inside-out what names we are called by and breaking open new
understandings of what we are called to. And I want to suggest that this is
true even when the religious language
being employed is language that we like
to use – us progressive Christian folks, us Methodists of the Reconciling
persuasion at places like Dumbarton and American University. I want to suggest
that God is still up to the type of language-subverting work that we see in
Jesus’ name – even when the language that we like to use is good language like “welcome”
and “inclusion.”
Recently, one of the AU students
that I work with sent me a quote from a Facebook discussion they were having
regarding the inclusion of transgendered folks. I’ll read you part of the
quote:
“When we talk about making a word or a space more inclusive, I think many of us imagine that this means those of us already included are, like, at a party in our house, and there are other people outside, and making it more inclusive means we open the door and let them in, where they will presumably take up some space and eat some of our food and the like. This model is problematic, because it implies a residual right of possession (the house, inviting people in) and a slight imposition on our part….Instead, we need to think of inclusivity like this: we are ALL already at a party and its not owned by anyone but there are far more people than chairs, and some people have been standing up for centuries. We need to get some more in and, if we can't get enough right now, we need to take turns. If that still doesn't do it, maybe we should move the whole party someplace else.”
Now, I like the word inclusion. And I
like the mission statement of the AU Methodists, which includes the words “Welcome
All.” But I suspect that what God is up to inside of words like inclusion and
welcome is bigger than what we’re often up to when we use them, just as what
God was up to in words like salvation and deliverance turned out to be
something deeper, something more surprising, than what those words meant to
their first century hearers. I suspect that, as that quote indicates, God might
not so much want us to invite those folks over their to our party as much as up and move the party somewhere else – or,
even more so, to recognize that this party wasn’t ever ours to begin with, that
it was always God’s party, and oooohhhhh the types of people that God has
invited to that party.
See God’s party, God’s church, God’s realm,
isn’t a white party that maybe we could squeeze some folks of color into.
God’s party isn’t a straight party that
maybe we could squeeze some gay folks into, nor a cisgendered party but maybe we could find a few more chairs
for some trans folks.
God’s
party isn’t an upper middle class party but, hey, maybe, if you ask nicely
enough, we’ll let a few poor folks in.
God’s welcome, God’s inclusion, is
deeper and wider and way more radical than all that. And, I suspect, it isn’t
about us welcoming those people to our church. It’s about uprooting ourselves from our comfort zones
and our sense of ownership and displacing ourselves to the kinds of parties
that Jesus attends – places that might be just as surprising to our religious
assumptions as Jesus would have been to those who thought they knew what his
name meant.
What do we call Jesus? What assumptions
are embedded in those names? And what is God up to in that -- subverting,
shaking up, and redefining what we are being called to?
---
The quote is from a personal correspondence with one of the students I work with at American University. Their name has been withheld in order to protect their superhero identity. But if you want to support their ministry, you can donate to the AU United Methodist-Protestant Community.
---
The quote is from a personal correspondence with one of the students I work with at American University. Their name has been withheld in order to protect their superhero identity. But if you want to support their ministry, you can donate to the AU United Methodist-Protestant Community.
Friday, July 31, 2015
a wound
"You have an old wound," she told me --
cropped gray hair and sloping ceilings,
for the dozenth, the hundredth, time.
"You have an old wound" --
and how to take such a thing seriously
when in the West Bank the settlers have lit an infant on fire
while the guards at the border blithely deny another human home
and the videos from just a few states away
show the shooting of an unarmed man
and the quick lies to cover it up
which -- we must assume --
are entirely normal.
"You have an old wound" --
what is such a thing in this
this
this world gone madder than me.
"You have an old wound.
Here, in your heart"
-- she touches her own heart, lightly --
"and you can care for it."
Here I sit --
touching my heart lightly --
watching the hurt.
Stepping into it.
Through it.
To a world whose wounds
are older than Cain
and as new as this morning's
awful
news.
cropped gray hair and sloping ceilings,
for the dozenth, the hundredth, time.
"You have an old wound" --
and how to take such a thing seriously
when in the West Bank the settlers have lit an infant on fire
while the guards at the border blithely deny another human home
and the videos from just a few states away
show the shooting of an unarmed man
and the quick lies to cover it up
which -- we must assume --
are entirely normal.
"You have an old wound" --
what is such a thing in this
this
this world gone madder than me.
"You have an old wound.
Here, in your heart"
-- she touches her own heart, lightly --
"and you can care for it."
Here I sit --
touching my heart lightly --
watching the hurt.
Stepping into it.
Through it.
To a world whose wounds
are older than Cain
and as new as this morning's
awful
news.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Sermon -- "Tell Another Generation"
Here's the text of yesterday's sermon at Chevy Chase United Methodist Church. A few technical issues, so no audio file this time around. The text was Joel 2:21-28.
"Tell Another Generation"
As one of your United Methodist campus
ministers at American University, a big part of my job over the summer is to participate
in a series of New Student Orientation sessions. These sessions, held
throughout June and July, are a chance for new students to meet each other, to
learn more about the school, and to meet with advisors for academic planning
and course selection. Each session includes a community involvement fair, where
various student activity groups, such as the United Methodist Protestant
Community, set up tables in one of the main dining areas in order to share
opportunities for student participation. We hand out free candy, give t-shirts
to people who sign up for our newsletter, and answer questions about spiritual
life on campus.
Something that I’ve noticed over a few
summers of these orientation sessions is a phenomenon that I call “Enthusiastic
Parent; Reluctant Student.” What happens is that a parent approaches our table,
very excited to find out that there are Methodists or Christians or whatever on
campus, and asks us a bunch of questions. Meanwhile, their child, the new
student, maintains a cool distance, physically separating themselves from the
*clearly embarrassing* enthusiasm of their parents or at the very least not
making too much eye contact with those of us behind the table. Sometimes,
parents even complain out loud about their child’s reluctance to approach our
table, which, as you might imagine, does not generally succeed at increasing
the student’s level of interest.
I’m not sharing this in order to make
fun of either parent or student – though this common phenomenon does lead to
some genuinely funny moments. But in all of these encounters, I find myself
really feeling for both the parent and the student. Both come into a new
student orientation experiencing a complex web of excitement and anxiety, fear
and hope. I’ve never been a parent, so I can only imagine the mixture of relief
that a beloved child has achieved this milestone, mixed with anxiety about them
being far away from home, mixed with excitement for all that is ahead of them,
mixed, perhaps, with a bit of nostalgia and maybe even the fear of loneliness
or a shift in parental purpose and self-understanding. I have, on the other
hand, been an undergraduate student, and although it was more than a decade ago
that I attended my own college’s new student orientation, I remember very well
the swirling combination of anxiety, fear, relief, excitement, stress – you name
it, I was feeling it.
And there’s something about a religious
life organization table that just brings it all out. This phenomenon doesn’t
happen as much to, say, the rugby club as it does to the religious life groups.
All of those new college jitters get stirred up with the addition of another
level of anxiety – for the parents, the question of whether the beliefs and
values that they’ve tried to instill will remain important once their children
leave home and begin their adult journeys. For the students, the question of how
to claim their own identity, how to be their own person in a new setting free
of the structures and parental influence of their childhoods. Faith, identity,
meaning, purpose – this is deep, complex stuff that can sometimes surface over
something as simple as whether or not they really need one of our free AU
Methodist pens.
And these personal anxieties take form on
top of a groundswell of deeper societal anxiety. Environmental catastrophe,
racism, gun violence, sexual assault on college campuses – this is the stuff of
internet newsfeeds and tense dinner table discussion. Our churches grapple with
cultural changes and narratives of decline. Aging congregations ask, “where are
the young people?”; young adults in the church ask “Why is it so hard for the
church to change?” An older generation wonders whether they have created an
environment unsafe for a younger; a younger generation wonders whether they
have what it takes to change the world left to them by an older. Who is to
blame for the mess we’re in? Who must take responsibility for changing it?
“Hear this, O elders,” declare the opening lines of the book of Joel, “give ear, all inhabitants of the land! Has such a thing happened in your days, or in the days of your ancestors? Tell your children of it, and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation.” Joel’s prophetic words are framed, from the very beginning of the book, as part of an intergenerational conversation, a passing on of wisdom and hope and challenge from one age to the next.
“Hear this, O elders,” declare the opening lines of the book of Joel, “give ear, all inhabitants of the land! Has such a thing happened in your days, or in the days of your ancestors? Tell your children of it, and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation.” Joel’s prophetic words are framed, from the very beginning of the book, as part of an intergenerational conversation, a passing on of wisdom and hope and challenge from one age to the next.
We don’t know very much about the person
named Joel. We do know that his is a late entry into the library of prophetic
literature. Many of the Hebrew prophets warn the nation of future exile if they
fail to deal justly and mercifully with the most vulnerable members of society.
Joel, however, writes after the exile
to Babylon and the return to the land of Judah. The crisis to which Joel is
responding is not the encroaching armies of foreign nations, but rather what us
modern folk might think of as a natural disaster: a swarm of locusts has
plagued the land, destroying crops and ruining livelihoods. In the midst of
this ecological catastrophe, Joel calls the leadership of Judah to account for
their unwillingness or inability to share the things of God with the next
generation. “Call a solemn assembly,” Joel cries, “gather the people. Sanctify
the congregation. Assemble the aged, gather the children, even infants at the
breast. Let the bridegroom leave his room, and the bride her canopy.”
Leave nobody out, Joel warns. Gather
everyone. Everyone needs to hear what God is up to in the midst of this crisis.
If there’s any way out of this locust-infested-mess, everybody better turn back
and listen to God.
To our 21st century ears,
Joel’s theologizing of disaster can seem strange, even harmful. Surely there
are natural, scientific explanations for a locust and famine. Surely God – who,
as Joel reminds the people, is “gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and
abounding in steadfast love” – surely such a God does not inflict harm on
people, including children, just to prove a point. The God that I believe in,
the Jesus that I follow, does not go around causing natural disasters and
random acts of violence in order to convince us to improve our behavior.
Yet there is something powerful about
Joel’s reminder to seek for the voice of God in the midst of an age of anxiety.
To stop and listen to what we might be called to do together when change is
scary, when disaster strikes, or when violence seems to reign supreme.
“Do not fear,” begins the passage from
Joel that we heard this morning. And in case we missed it, it’s repeated – “Do
not fear, O soil; be glad and rejoice, for the LORD has done great things! Do
not fear, you animals of the field, for the pastures of the wilderness are
green, the tree bears its fruit, the fig tree and vine give their full yield.”
Even as environmental
and economic catastrophe rage all around, Joel calls God’s covenant community
back to a hope in the ever-generous abundance of God. “You shall know that I am
in your midst,” God declares. I am with you. I am with you. You are not alone.
And then – and here,
perhaps, we come to understand why Joel has been so insistent that all the people, young and old, have been
gathered to hear this message – we hear the words that have become familiar in
the Christian tradition through the story of Pentecost:
“I
will pour out my spirit on all flesh;
your sons and your daughters shall
prophesy, your old folk shall dream dreams, and
your young folk shall see visions.”
For Joel, the culmination of the hope
that he comes to offer the beleaguered and distraught people of God is a vision
of intergenerational inspiration, in which people of all ages and genders – and
we can add of all races, of all language-groups, of all abilities and orientations
and political affiliations and national backgrounds – all find themselves
dreaming anew, imagining anew, speaking out anew about the things of the
Spirit.
In
the midst of ecological crisis, God says, “I will pour out my spirit…on all of you.”
In
the midst of violence caused by deprivation and distrust, God says, “I will
pour out my spirit…on all of you.”
In the midst of massive societal
change, God says: “I will pour out my spirit…on all of you.”
In
the midst of intergenerational anxiety and tension, God says, “I will pour out
my spirit…on all of you, young or old
or anywhere in between. And you will dream new things, and see new things, and
speak new things.”
Now,
it’s a bit strange being a guest preacher in a congregation that I don’t know
very well. I don’t know each of you, and your unique stories and situations. I
don’t know whether some of you are about to send a kid off to college, or if
some of you are going off to college yourselves. I don’t know if some of you
are worried about whether a younger generation is going to carry on the mission
and ministry that you’ve put so much time and effort into cultivating; I don’t
know if some of you are worried that an older generation will never get out of
the way and let you lead.
What
I think I know is this: God’s still got some Spirit waiting to pour out on us.
God’s still got some Spirit waiting to pour out on American University. On
Chevy Chase United Methodist Church. On the church in the U.S. and around the
world. God’s still got some dream-inspiring, vision-inducing,
imagination-provoking Spirit to pour out on all of us.
But
we’ve got to take the time and make the space to receive it. And if sons and
daughters are prophesying, and older people are dreaming dreams, and younger
people are seeing visions – then we darn well better figure out some ways to
share all that with each other.
As
usual, there are no easy guides for how to do this, no quick 3-step solution to
the challenge at hand. Instead, here is one story: last week I attended a big,
raucous Christian festival in North Carolina, called the Wild Goose Festival.
On the last day of the festival, I helped my friend Alicia facilitate a
conversation about growing a new generation of leaders in the church. An
intergenerational group – from 12 years old to 76 – sat together and shared
their first memories of leadership, and the things that make them feel affirmed
or discouraged as leaders. Youth shared their hopes and their fears. Older
adults asked how they could be more supportive, and shared some of their own
feelings of being pushed aside or not listened to.
Of
all the many wonderful things I experienced at that festival – and it was a
wonderful experience – that conversation gave me the most hope. It felt like we
were taking the time to listen to each other’s dreams and visions, to create a
space of sharing and collaboration in the midst of a societal context of
anxiety and fear and division.
We
can create such spaces – here, in our churches, in our communities, in our
families. We can ask questions, we can listen, we can share from a place of
honesty and of Spirit. What it might look like exactly, I can’t tell you for
sure – but we can do it, and we must. Otherwise, we might just miss what it is
that God is pouring out among us.
So
gather the people. Sanctify the congregation. Assemble the aged. Gather the
children, even infants at the breast. Listen for what God has to say: “Do not
fear. Do not fear. I am with you – all of
you – always.”
Amen.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
A few scattered Wild Goose reflections
This past weekend, Leigh and I and a bunch of other folks hung out in Hot Springs, NC for the Wild Goose Festival, which is like this big raucous mashup of a progressive Christian conference, a rock concert, a support group for recovering evangelicals (and disgruntled mainliners), a meditation retreat, and a RenFaire. (There are no massive turkey legs, I am assuming out of respect for wild geese. There are kilts, though. And beer.)
I had the incredible privilege to share a stage at the Goose with Rev. Sarah Lund, a UCC pastor who is doing great work to break the silence around mental illness, particularly in churches. We spoke of our experiences with mental illness, mental health, and faith. A had a number of people ask me for resources afterwards, so I'm going to put a few things down at the bottom of this relatively brief post.
I had meant to record my talk so I could post it on here, but I got so nervous beforehand that it totally fell out of my mind -- and anyway, the content of it pretty much shows up in bits and pieces on other places on this blog.
But I will just share a few quick reflections.
Sarah and I, I think it's fair to say, are both new to the Wild Goose world. We weren't exactly the headline names of the festival. We spoke in one of the festival tents while at the same time, on the main stage, people like Brian McLaren and Rudy Rasmus and Sara Miles spoke. So we weren't quite sure how many people would come to our talk.
We packed the tent. My guess would be 250-300 people were in there, though I'm bad at estimating numbers.
I don't say this to brag. Just the opposite: to me, the fact that so many people showed up to hear relatively unknown folks talk about mental illness reveals just how desperately people want to talk about this. Mental illness and mental health struggle are such a part of our shared human experience, but so rarely are people given permission to share their stories of it. And so we gave people some time to talk to each other, and the tent filled with the sounds of honest and painful stories, and tears just streamed down my cheeks.
Afterwards, people asked me a number of powerful questions, most of which I didn't have answers to. I'm going to be pondering some of them and maybe writing short reflections over the next couple of days, but for now I just want to say "thank you" to everyone who came, to everyone who has supported me, and to everyone who takes the risk of sharing their own story.
And for any of you out there who are struggling, or who feel unable to share: hang in there. Try to practice self-compassion, as hard as it is. Know that you are not alone.
I will also just say that, if what I say whenever I talk about is true -- that the first step to healing for people struggling with mental illness is to reduce isolation -- then the fact that Leigh and my parents were both in the tent while I shared my story is a testament to the kind of incredible support and love that I hope everyone will be able to receive.
One final thought. The day after our talk, I helped my friends Alicia and Morgan facilitate an intergenerational conversation about leadership. I believe the youngest person in the circle was 12; the oldest was 76. It was, for me, the most important thing that I participated in during the Festival. Youth shared their experiences of being affirmed in, and being discouraged from, their leadership. Adults asked questions about how they could be more supportive, how they could listen better. And some older folks shared their own frustrations with not being heard or trusted by society.
It is my opinion that without this kind of conversation, happening everywhere, in as many different types of venues as possible, all of the other important conversations at a place like Wild Goose -- about LGBTQ lives and the spirituality of authenticity, about racial and economic justice, about mental illness and mental health -- all of these conversations will sputter for lack of intergenerational oxygen.
And I believe that we can be the people to ensure that these conversations happen.
All of which is to say: Thank you. Thank you. Wow.
A few resources on mental health and mental illness:
-- first, I'll reiterate that the most important resource for folks struggling with mental illness is people and communities who are willing to just show up -- to listen non-judgmentally and to reduce isolation
-- second, if you're in crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255. You can find out more about the Lifeline at their website or the website of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. The Lifeline was just exactly that for me on a number of occasions when I was in crisis.
-- many denominations have begun developing mental health resources for use in churches, such as the UCC's Mental Health Network and the UMC's Caring Community Program
-- I recently completed a Mental Health First Aid training, which I highly recommend for anyone, but particularly people -- from pastors to from security guards to church front desk volunteers to parents -- who often end up being the 'first on the scene' during mental health crises. I found a free training, and it was about six hours. Totally worth it.
-- A number of organizations like NAMI and Recovery International have peer-to-peer support groups. I don't have personal experience with these groups -- most of my group work has happened in psychiatric hospitals -- but they're worth checking out.
-- Sarah Lund's book, Blessed are the Crazy, has a number of helpful resources in an appendix. Other books that have been helpful to me in my journey have been Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression; Kay Redfield Jamison's An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness; and Jean Vanier's very short and easy to read Seeing Beyond Depression.
I had the incredible privilege to share a stage at the Goose with Rev. Sarah Lund, a UCC pastor who is doing great work to break the silence around mental illness, particularly in churches. We spoke of our experiences with mental illness, mental health, and faith. A had a number of people ask me for resources afterwards, so I'm going to put a few things down at the bottom of this relatively brief post.
I had meant to record my talk so I could post it on here, but I got so nervous beforehand that it totally fell out of my mind -- and anyway, the content of it pretty much shows up in bits and pieces on other places on this blog.
But I will just share a few quick reflections.
Sarah and I, I think it's fair to say, are both new to the Wild Goose world. We weren't exactly the headline names of the festival. We spoke in one of the festival tents while at the same time, on the main stage, people like Brian McLaren and Rudy Rasmus and Sara Miles spoke. So we weren't quite sure how many people would come to our talk.
We packed the tent. My guess would be 250-300 people were in there, though I'm bad at estimating numbers.
I don't say this to brag. Just the opposite: to me, the fact that so many people showed up to hear relatively unknown folks talk about mental illness reveals just how desperately people want to talk about this. Mental illness and mental health struggle are such a part of our shared human experience, but so rarely are people given permission to share their stories of it. And so we gave people some time to talk to each other, and the tent filled with the sounds of honest and painful stories, and tears just streamed down my cheeks.
Afterwards, people asked me a number of powerful questions, most of which I didn't have answers to. I'm going to be pondering some of them and maybe writing short reflections over the next couple of days, but for now I just want to say "thank you" to everyone who came, to everyone who has supported me, and to everyone who takes the risk of sharing their own story.
And for any of you out there who are struggling, or who feel unable to share: hang in there. Try to practice self-compassion, as hard as it is. Know that you are not alone.
I will also just say that, if what I say whenever I talk about is true -- that the first step to healing for people struggling with mental illness is to reduce isolation -- then the fact that Leigh and my parents were both in the tent while I shared my story is a testament to the kind of incredible support and love that I hope everyone will be able to receive.
One final thought. The day after our talk, I helped my friends Alicia and Morgan facilitate an intergenerational conversation about leadership. I believe the youngest person in the circle was 12; the oldest was 76. It was, for me, the most important thing that I participated in during the Festival. Youth shared their experiences of being affirmed in, and being discouraged from, their leadership. Adults asked questions about how they could be more supportive, how they could listen better. And some older folks shared their own frustrations with not being heard or trusted by society.
It is my opinion that without this kind of conversation, happening everywhere, in as many different types of venues as possible, all of the other important conversations at a place like Wild Goose -- about LGBTQ lives and the spirituality of authenticity, about racial and economic justice, about mental illness and mental health -- all of these conversations will sputter for lack of intergenerational oxygen.
And I believe that we can be the people to ensure that these conversations happen.
All of which is to say: Thank you. Thank you. Wow.
A few resources on mental health and mental illness:
-- first, I'll reiterate that the most important resource for folks struggling with mental illness is people and communities who are willing to just show up -- to listen non-judgmentally and to reduce isolation
-- second, if you're in crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255. You can find out more about the Lifeline at their website or the website of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. The Lifeline was just exactly that for me on a number of occasions when I was in crisis.
-- many denominations have begun developing mental health resources for use in churches, such as the UCC's Mental Health Network and the UMC's Caring Community Program
-- I recently completed a Mental Health First Aid training, which I highly recommend for anyone, but particularly people -- from pastors to from security guards to church front desk volunteers to parents -- who often end up being the 'first on the scene' during mental health crises. I found a free training, and it was about six hours. Totally worth it.
-- A number of organizations like NAMI and Recovery International have peer-to-peer support groups. I don't have personal experience with these groups -- most of my group work has happened in psychiatric hospitals -- but they're worth checking out.
-- Sarah Lund's book, Blessed are the Crazy, has a number of helpful resources in an appendix. Other books that have been helpful to me in my journey have been Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression; Kay Redfield Jamison's An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness; and Jean Vanier's very short and easy to read Seeing Beyond Depression.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)