I shall pour out my Spirit on all flesh...

Ash Wednesday is one of those things I didn't know about until I was a teenager. I didn't receive ashes on my forehead until I was leading a service during my final year in seminary. Yet, the service has become one of my favorite worship services during the whole year. Then, there was this year.

This year...this year...how can I begin to write about this year?

I had planned, as I always do. There were stations set up, which I'd never done, to be followed by a traditional service. I had my text, my sermon, my plan, all printed up and placed neatly in a binder. After the call to worship, I took my place in front of the congregation. I opened my binder. I looked out at the congregation.

In an instant, I realized nothing I had planned would work. I looked down at my 12th grade reading level text and out to a congregation where half, maybe even more than half, of the people gathered were between the ages of four and sixteen. It was impossible.

Here is that point where I wish I could say that I thought a prayer, or something to make me sound equally pious. I can't. Instead, I can offer what came next: an outpouring of the Holy Spirit.

Confessing this makes me uncomfortable. Incredibly uncomfortable. I rationally affirm the presence and action of the Holy Spirit all the time. This was different.

This was standing before a congregation of people, realizing the first step was to offer an explanation of Ash Wednesday. "This service is about saying we're sorry, not just we're sorry to each other, but saying we're sorry to God."

This was standing there as, somehow, the reading of Jesus' teaching about storing up treasures in heaven became a story that children could hear, as did the short homily afterward. It was amazing. The words that flowed from my mouth amazed even me.

But they weren't my words.

I'm serious. I've struggled with the experience. I've struggled with the responses from that service, the "That was a really good service," feedback. Because, you see, it wasn't me.

It wasn't me. Not in an overarching God-called-me-to-this sort of way. Not in a to-God-be-the-Glory kind of way. In a I'm-not-sure-I-ever-could-do-that kind of way.

I have responded, "That was totally God, not me," but I'm still feel as if no one really grasps the fullness of that statement. The experience was surreal, strange, something Other. It left me wanting to grab people just to say, "That was God! Did you hear that?" It made me restless and uneasy and elated. It made me totally unsure of what would happen next.

For other reasons, I had to read the story of Pentecost a couple days later. The mighty rushing wind, tongues of fire, speaking in various languages story of Pentecost. The people must be drunk story of Pentecost. The coming of the Holy Spirit story of Pentecost.

For the first time, I considered those people who spoke in different languages rather than the ones hearing in their language. I realized that was the best means I have to talk about Ash Wednesday. It was sharing the experience of not my words, but God's words, in order that others could receive the Gospel.


Still wondering if this can really be me who is saying this, who is claiming these things, I say to the Church:

God was serious on this one: I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh. Your sons and your daughters will prophesy...

Thanks be to God.

This is God...

So far, I've been asked to do two weddings. One of them didn't happen; the other did, although it was certainly interesting.

However, neither couple had ever had much to do with church. They didn't know anything about Jesus or baptism or communion. They had no idea how a wedding with pastor would be different from a wedding with a judge. Yet, neither struggled to answer my question, "So if you've never been part of a church or considered yourself a Christian before, why do you want a minister to perform the wedding?"

"Because this person is a gift from God." Almost verbatim, all four said just that, with and apart from the other.

Yes, there was a hint of hope of a little mystical help for their future as a couple. More than that, though, it was their deep, deep recognition that the goodness of their relationships had to come from outside them. None of them had anything so good or healing before.

And in that experience of goodness, they came looking for God. They came looking for the place and the people who say, "We know God."

I wonder what they found.

I know what welcome I gave them. Somehow, though, I don't think our churches know what to do with testimony of God that comes from outside Christian faith, or maybe any faith at all. I know the church I serve now doesn't. We still believe that God is present in only the ways God has been made known to us before. We forget that God calls to all sorts of people, even in ways we never expect. We forget that God gives good gifts to all sorts of people.

I had a professor once who said that studying church history was just a means of naming your own heresies. I have to say I've found that endlessly true. Probably the most heretical point of my life was when I owned up to believing that God could become known to humanity in another way, a fourth hypostasis for you theology nerds. Why not?

Truthfully, I don't think any of the folks coming to me, having experienced God, have experienced God in a new way.

Yet, if I believe that God called to Abraham in the desert, why not in small-town Missouri? If I believe that Moses stood before a bush that burned but was not consumed, in the middle of a desert, far away from anyone else, why do good gifts seem so difficult to accept? Jesus called to fisherman, at least one of whom had a non-Israelite name. The man from Ethiopia was reading something he didn't understand. The list goes on and on.

Still, when the young couple comes to the church, saying God brought them together, the first impulse of folks to say, "Oh, you need us!"

I think it should be more like, "Oh, we need you!"

Judgy-Wudgy Was a Bear...

It's amazing how many times I've run up against the criticism that Christians are judgmental. It's been named on numerous websites and a few studies, including the book unChristian. The shortest answer I have for that criticism is, "You're right."

I take quite seriously the admonition to be in the world, but not of it. To not be conformed to the ways of this world. To be a light to the world. All those things. All those things that say, "This world is broken; God has a better way."

My personal life is quite calm, sometimes downright boring. For the most part, I'm the designated driver, plan for a rainy day, think about the consequences kind of person. In ministry, parents love my stable, show up, be consistent traits.

I work to make my faith an embodied, living reality. I hope that faith is evident apart from my work and vocation. With God's help, my life does look very different from the ways of this world.

Yet, I find myself biting my tongue often when I'm with church folks. I try to gauge how much truth I can speak, how much is safe to reveal. Yes, there's appropriate pastoral boundaries, which I hope to employ. Then, there's this...this thing voice that says, "You can't say that here."

I can't say my best theological conversations are over dinner with people who steer clear of church. I certainly can't name the reasons they steer clear of church.

I can't say that the non-clergy friends from my life in mainline Protestant world have absolutely no clue why I would bother with church.

I can't say that, you know what, I really don't know how to theologically process transsexualism, but I want a community that will genuinely wrestle with that question.

I don't talk about the movies I watch or the books I read without careful deliberation, even though I am convinced that some Stephen King works provide better theological fodder than 90% of what is in the devotional section of bookstores. Give me an exorcism movie if you want to talk about the problems of evil and the difficulties of being faithful. I have an ever-growing whole collection if you want a viewing party!

The list of things I don't speak could go on and on.

And every one of those things adds a little bit to that chasm between my world and the church. It's part of the ever-growing concern I have, wondering if there is a church that has room for people like me and people nothing like me. I'm pretty sure the Kingdom of God does.

Oh--and one other thing. I want a community that holds me accountable, and yes, might even judge me. Please, look for the works that are a mark of my faith. See if I have done what Jesus asked--clothed the poor, fed the hungry, visited the lonely.

Look for the fruits of the Spirit. Guide me when I am not gentle enough. Admonish me when I speak in hate rather than love. Chastise me when I am impatient.

Please.

And don't worry that the title of this post is a quote from Sex and the City.

Christmas...

I'm as annoyed by Christian insanity over Christmas as the next person. Another "Keep Christ in Christmas" might put me over the edge. That's a whole other topic, though.

Instead, I want to pick on Santa Claus. Hang on. Don't freak out yet. Give me a few minutes.

I have absolutely nothing against the jolly old man. Really. It's just that he wasn't part of my childhood Christmas. He almost was, but my family was never really sure how to handle him. Basically, he was an excuse for presents appearing on Christmas morning rather than the night before. Because I never really believed in him, there's no traumatic childhood memory of realizing he doesn't exist, which has sometimes created problems.

Skipping over the trauma I caused my classmates, within three months of being hired as children's minister, I almost compared the nonexistence of Santa Claus to something else during a children's sermon. I don't remember what, actually. Yet, as I was walking up to give the children's sermon, I realized that anything alluding to no Santa was probably a bad idea. I can now only dream of the bullet I dodged there! Still, overall, I think Santa is a rather benevolent presence in life, even if a little creepy if you think about it very hard.

A couple weeks ago, though, I was talking with Sunday school teachers, all of whom are also moms. They were, of course, all sharing Santa stories. Who knew that Santa doesn't wrap presents at some houses? Or that he only fills stockings at others? Or that he only brings one gift at still others? One of the moms, though, was having to deal with her 4th grade daughter's realization that Santa isn't real.

As she and her daughter talked about Santa, she cried and told her daughter over and over again, "I've been lying to you. Santa is a lie."

Of course, the kid tried to comfort her mom, telling her, "No, it wasn't really a lie."

The mom dutifully responded, "Yes, it was. I want you to always remember that. I lied to you about Santa. He's not real. And I want you to know I lied to you about Santa because I really want you to know that I'm not lying to you about God and Jesus."

You can probably imagine the rest of the conversation.

There's something in there about the way Christians treat Christmas. I really, really am not upset if Christians choose to participate in the Santa thing. But I am kind of upset we feel like we have to.

Yes, the gifts go overboard. Yes, Santa's now totally secular and maybe always was so. More than that, though, it's the same thing we keep saying over and over to ourselves and our kids: the Gospel is not enough.

The Christ Child is not enough. We need a magic man to bring presents to make this a good holiday. We need magical flying reindeer. We need elves. We need gingerbread men and houses. We need all sorts of things to make Christmas special and memorable.

Those things aren't bad by themselves, but they help us lose our way. And if they all disappeared, what would we find?

Welcome!

The thing I enjoy most about working with kids is getting to teach them Bible stories for the first time. It's awesome. They don't ask too many questions. They don't worry about the how and the details. They trust that God could do whatever the Bible story says God could do. It's awesome. I also believe that if those stories shape their world enough, then when they start asking all the questions, they'll wrestle with them rather than walking away from the faith in which they were raised.

But seriously, tell a kid about Elijah for the first time and watch her face. It's awesome.

Up until a few days ago, every kid I'd ever taught had some idea about God and churchy things. If I said, "It's time to pray," they'd bow their heads and fold their hands. If I said, "We're gonna sing," they'd have a request or two.

But all that changed a few days ago.

A man came to church and brought his two young children, ages 3 and 5. The second Sunday they came, I invited them to stay for Sunday school. They did.

That Sunday, I happened to be in the kids' class. Since I was the only person those two kids had ever met, they sat with me. I introduced them as my friends.

It soon became clear they'd never been to church at all.

They had puzzled looks when we sang. They didn't add to the list of things the kids were thankful for. And when the leader said, "Let's pray," the little boy looked up at me completely puzzled.

I thought quickly and said, "It's time to talk to God. Sit like this." So we sat, hands folded, eyes closed, heads bowed, and we talked to God.

It was easy, but it was easy because he was a little kid. Kids are used to having adults explain things to them. Kids are used to being shown how to do something. Kids are used to not knowing. As I think more and more about the people I encounter who have never had anything to do with church, I wonder how to do that. 

How do we teach adults to pray? Not just the Jesus' response kind of way, but the I have no clue what you mean way.

How do we invite adults to sing? Unless they're karaoke fans or former choir members, should we even expect participation in congregational singing?

And that doesn't even get to the perceived more important stuff of communion, baptism, Bible, sermons...

We say, "Welcome!" all the time, but how do we live it?

I've wondered many times since the day that little boy and I prayed together what would happen if he had been 25 or 35 or 45 instead of only 5. Could he have asked? Could I have answered as easily?

I love tradition. I love churchy words. I don't think the answer is to toss out all the churchy things to be more friendly to folks who have never walked in the door of a church.

All those things together, though, can make our "Welcome!" sound a little more like "Welcome?" Where is the space to just as gently take an adult by the hand and say, "Here's how we pray," as one would a child?

"Fear not!"

I don't remember the sermon or the commentator at this point. What I do remember is this gist of the commentary: the phrase repeated incredibly often in the Gospels is "Do not fear." There are variations, of course, but it's there, over and over and over, again. The angels spoke those words when they spoke of Jesus' birth. Jesus spoke those words when he calmed the storm, when he walked on water, when he called disciples, when he preached--and a whole bunch of times there!

Today, in one of those meetings that was going nowhere, one of my lay leaders asked the question of the pastors, "What's our greatest hindrance in going forward?"

My answer was quick and simple: fear.

I stand firmly by it. I wish they could have heard it better. Maybe there are others who can hear it now.

Church, please, do not be afraid.

Do not be afraid to toss out programs that aren't effective and wear you out.
Do not be afraid to try something you have never tried before.
Do not be afraid to hear stories of people and from people you do not understand.
Do not be afraid to make room for those stories and those people who tell them, even when it's going to mean thinking a little differently than you once did.
Do not be afraid to read the Bible with those stories in mind.
Do not be afraid to read the Bible as if you don't already know what it says.
Do not be afraid to admit, "We were wrong."
Do not be afraid to admit, "We don't know."
Do not be afraid to live in the gray space.
Do not be afraid to walk out in faith and trust that God will surely be there.
Do not be afraid of the things you don't know or understand.

Church, please, do not be afraid. Just because the culture doesn't think you are important doesn't mean it's true. But you have to stop being afraid.

You see, I've seen fear in a church firsthand, especially that fear to see and hear differently. I grew up in a church that told me time and time again, "God would not speak to you in that way." It was, of course, in response to entering ministry. I grew up in a church that was certain God would not speak that way, could not, no matter how loudly I heard God's voice.

They were unwilling to re-examine, re-interpret or listen with me. So I left.

I now understand a lot better why other folks my age have left. They've heard far too much, in too many ways, "God can't be speaking that way."

So church, please, do not be afraid. Re-examine. Re-interpret. Listen hard and listen with. God will show up. You might be surprised at what God has to say, but since it is God, whatever the word is will lead to goodness.

Hear the Good News: "Do not fear, only believe."

In case you have to look it up, that quote's from Jesus. 

Just a Little Heresy

I am quite aware that there are many, many heresies I could preach from the pulpit and no one in my congregation would ever complain. However, here is one heresy that is going to get me into a lot of trouble: it's time to kill potluck dinners.

If some of the older church ladies heard that, I'd be scraping them off the floor right now. My personal distaste for potluck dinners is pronounced and easily identified: it's a large social gathering in which I'm expected to mingle. I don't like that whole scenario.

More broadly, though, it's about a way of life that is not part of my reality.

Potluck dinners assume:

• I cook.
• I like to cook.
• I know what to cook.
• I can cook for several people.
• I have ingredients in my home to cook.
• I can cook unhealthy things. 

Ok, short of the last one, there's a theme here: it's a family-oriented, very domestic event. Here's the thing, again: that's not me. It's not the great stretch for me to cook something for a potluck that it is for many of my friends, but it is a stretch. I cook mostly healthy stuff for just one person or I grab take-out. I'm happy to eat my own cooking, but who knows about anyone else. My cooking is certainly never subject to judgment and yes, I do cook up some delicious experiments. I also cook up some disgusting experiments. And oh yeah, I eat all of those on my couch. I consider my table to be more of a large shelf.

So to cook, sit down, eat a meal and clean up afterwards is a foreign concept for the way I live my life.

I want table fellowship, don't get me wrong. I'd just rather go out to eat or be told very specifically what to bring.

What I don't want is the expectation that table fellowship can only take place in the same way it always has. Or a table fellowship that is a remnant of a time when women were to have strong domestic skills. I don't want table fellowship that resembles family dinners similar to ones I haven't participated in regularly since childhood.

For once, there's nothing resembling theological reflection going on here. It's just my own cry to the church: Make space for someone like me. Figure out a way to be church that doesn't ask me to be a family-oriented cook. That way, I don't feel like such a misfit in a church that is already unsure of what to do with me.

I'm pretty sure some other folks would agree.