It's Not Spiritual

I have come to hate the phrase "spiritual journey." I'm not sure how it happened. Perhaps it reminds me of church advertising, striving to be relevant. Perhaps it reminds me of self-assured folks, trusting one day we'll all reach the right way, the one they're on. Mostly, though, I hate the phrase because my journey is not spiritual.

Yes, this journey is God-filled. The Holy Spirit shows up in times and places expected and absurd. But this journey is not spiritual. It is wholly, completely embodied.

If I only talk about ministry, only the things I encounter during my paid hours, let me tell you about this journey.

It is a journey of camp--of scraped knees and hurt feelings. It is a journey of bee stings and homesickness. It is a journey of s'mores and sticky fingers and water balloons and splashing in pools.

 It is a journey of youth groups--of volleyball and egg-soaked teenagers. It is a journey of pizza and doughnuts. It is a journey of torn pages and spilled drinks. It is a journey of fitting in and sticking out.

It is a journey of people in need--of unpaid bills and loneliness. It is a journey that requires food to eat and a place to sleep. It is a journey that means selling everything you own to pay for funerals, then finding a new home.

It is a journey of people frustrated with their bodies--old bodies that can't do the things they once did. It's a journey marked by women wondering what to do with their now pregnant bodies that look and feel different. It's a journey that means lifting less because of surgery and guarding closely the ones among us who are unsteady.

This journey is not spiritual.

This journey is marked by nights with prayers ascending in the midst of flour-covered hands and counters, preparing bread to feed strangers and friends.

This journey is always, always embodied, with all the dirt and mess and unpleasant things that come with having a body.

That doesn't mean this journey is unholy. It just means it's not something that takes place in a neat and tidy spiritual place.

But no, this journey is not spiritual.

Caesar Won

When I came to work one day last week, I found a man asleep on the patio. It's a gated area, so somehow, he knew how to get in. I assume he was homeless. Why else would someone sleep on the concrete on a day when it would be well over a hundred degrees?

I went to my office to figure out what to do, leaving him asleep on the patio for a bit longer. Eventually, I went out on the patio to talk to him, offer him some water, and ask him to leave. Asking him to leave was always part of the equation.

When I opened the door from inside the building out to the patio, I heard an unfamiliar grating noise. Chairs had been placed in front of the door, assuring that he would awaken if anyone opened it. Sure enough, he jumped up at the noise. The conversation that followed was anything but holy.

He wanted a ride to the hospital. He wouldn't believe I was the pastor. I didn't believe his claim that he was dying. I wasn't about to be alone in my car with him and I was trying to figure out why this clean, decently well dressed man was there at all. Soon, he was accusing me of badgering him and asking me to call the police. Finally, he refused to leave unless they came.

As I walked back into my office to place the call, I realized he probably wanted to get arrested. Doing so meant a cool place to spend the day--it's Arizona, it gets hot--and a meal or two. The only problem with this plan is that the last thing I wanted to do was call the police.

I'm still young enough that police presence is more unnerving than comforting. They're here about the party or the wayward friend or all those other things that 20 somethings do that attracts police attention. The thought of asking them to come wasn't at all appealing.

I also knew this wasn't an emergency that warranted dialing 911; therefore, I had no idea how to call the police. Google gave me the number; that was the wrong place, though. The church is on a county island, so I needed to call the sheriff's office instead.

Begrudgingly, I dialed the number for the sheriff's office, the very one where Sheriff Joe reigns supreme. As I spoke to the dispatcher, I heard the gate open and saw the man leave, but not before was looking through the window in my office to see if I was actually calling the police. The dispatcher said they'd send someone any way. I thanked her and hung up. By that time, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Still, I checked to make sure the doors were locked.

A few days later, I still don't think I could have done much differently. Still, I have this niggling thought day in and day out: Caesar won. Caesar got what belonged to God.

I let the story of my culture win, not God's story. My culture says that man might have been dangerous. My culture says I'm a woman, so I should be even more afraid. My culture says to call someone with a badge and a gun, someone who can remove the person who subsists at the margins of society. My culture says to mediate the help offered, otherwise "they" will come back and send their friends, too. Each of those sentences warrants a long discussion. It doesn't change the fact that, when I tell this story, Caesar won, not God.

God's story says again and again, "Don't be afraid." God's story says again and again the the marginalized, the poor, the ones crying out for help at the side of the road are the very ones who deserve compassion. God's story places the people at the margins of society at the center of God's story. God's story is one that knows people in need will stop you in crowds, dig holes through your roof, grab your clothing as you walk by. God's story knows all of the problems with saying yes. God's story says yes anyway.

Next time, somehow, God's story will win. God's story will be the one I tell. Next time, God will get what rightfully belongs to Her.

Only Here

I love the Church--the universal big C Church and the itty bitty local congregation. I believe it's holy community. I believe it is transforming.

And here's why.

This weekend I watched a young man, about sixteen, follow a man in his 80s to his car. The elderly man now needs a walker, is not as steady as he used to be, and the young man didn't want him to fall. Their relationship is beautiful, filled with love for one another. And no, they're not grandfather and grandson; they know each other because they worship together.

This weekend, one of the joys shared was a couple celebrating 62 years of marriage. And yes, the couple was celebrating. They are wonderfully, joyfully married to each other, continuing to honor the covenant they began so many years ago. 

This weekend, two young men stood before the congregation to be prayed over and blessed by all the congregation. Both graduated high school this year and will soon be headed to college. Their families are proud and celebrating, of course, but so is the woman who taught the kids in Sunday school and dreaded the questions she might get. An intellectually and spiritually curious 10 year old is a blessing and a curse. Celebrating with them are the other kids they've worshipped with and gone to camp with. The littlest kids looked in awe, wondering what could be so important that these teenagers stood in front of the congregation.

And that was just this weekend. On other weekends, who knows what might happen. Still, so often, I say, "Only here." 

Only in church will things like this happen. In a culture that puts olds folks in retirement communities and kids in school, where else will the two meet? Outside of biological family that might be scattered in all sorts of directions, where else? In a culture that is fighting about marriage, we too rarely see the lived example that has little to do with pieces of paper. I say, again, "Only here." Only in the holy, beautiful thing that is church.

It's an embodied, grounding experience like no other. If I chose to leave it, I have no clue where I might find a community that stretches and pulls me in such amazing ways. And for this I say again, thanks be to God!

One Year

It's true, more than a year has passed since my last post. The time lapse was not intentional; instead, it was the result of a difficult ministry that created a very difficult time in my life. So a year went by, with little to share with those outside, little dreaming about what could be, and mostly crying out, clamoring for a place where I could live my call to ministry and live all the dreams for what the church could be.

For the last four months, I've been in a new call, in a new home, in a new state. With the move came resurrection, so I start writing, again, as part of this new life.

And I start writing for the second time with the same conviction I had when I started: the church must change for the sake of people like me and the sake of the world.

And still I say, "Here I am. Send me."

What I Didn't Say

I preached this past Sunday. It was a celebration of the first Pentecost and along with it, the continued presence of the Holy Spirit in the church. It was those fabulous Ezekiel and Acts texts about gifts of new life. It was a decent sermon.

But I was saddened by what I didn't preach. Reading through the texts, preparing for the sermon, I felt the Spirit Whoosh. It's my term. Think of it as a compound noun, not a noun and verb. The Spirit Whoosh. It's not uncommon, but not particularly common either. It's the spine-tingling, stomach flip moment when I know where the sermon is going and that yes, it is a word from the Lord. It usually means a really good sermon, too. I'm willing to admit, some sermons are more God-breathed than others.

The Spirit Whoosh came with I realized the Acts text, at least for this moment, was speaking to the possibility of new things. Actually, the expectation of new things. I love the doctrine that says the Holy Spirit is always with the church. I gush about it from time to time. It's the thing that says more stuff is coming from God. I could rant and rave for much longer, but will stop at simply reiterating: more stuff is coming from God. God will call the church to new places.

That's where I stopped in Sunday's sermon. But there was something missing. Mostly, I didn't name all the new places I think the Spirit may be calling the church. The thing that kept coming to mind was, not surprisingly, the church's acceptance of LGBTQ folks. I knew I couldn't say anything to my full congregation during a sermon. I'll admit, I didn't want the backlash from such a sermon. More than that, though, I knew they couldn't hear it. It would be alienating and troubling instead of liberating. I knew that. So instead, I laid the framework for openness. I preached that we should expect more things to come from the Spirit.

It's days like this, though, that I realize I'm still a fundamentalist in my marrow and it sneaks up from time to time. That means that somewhere, I am always, always conscious that I'm breaking the rules. I can admit that now. As a woman, standing in front of the assembly preaching, I'm breaking the rules. And I'm good with that. I've been led by God to do that, along with thousands of others, probably millions. The Spirit moved.

It's through that moving of the Spirit that I changed ideas about many other things, mostly a long list of things I had clearly labeled "sin." That's another story. Today, though, I mourn for what I didn't say, or what I couldn't say, take your pick. It's heart-breaking and troubling and just plain annoying.

But it causes me to pray that the Spirit keeps moving in ways that all can hear. After all, isn't that the Pentecost story?

Why I'm Still Here

Last weekend, I talked a friend who doesn't do church at all into going to a church-related but not over the top churchy 5k. Mostly, I just didn't want to go alone. Afterward, I found out how much she doesn't want to be part of anything to do with Christianity or any religion for that matter. What she said wasn't offense; in fact, I quite understand, actually. I've already named my own difficulties with being in church.

The question remains, though, why am I still here?

There was the minister who didn't believe I should go to seminary, not because it was wrong for women but because it was too much of a struggle for the church to handle.

There were the friend's parents who went against their better judgement when they didn't kick me out of their home once they found out I was a minister; this same friend had asked me if I could perform her wedding.

There's the reality that the perceptions of church people as sheltered might be a very accurate perception.

Then there's just the day to day craziness.

Why am I still here?

I'm here, quite simply, because in the name of Christ I have been transformed.

In the name of Christ, I was given an abundance of people who flooded me with support for attending seminary. I still gratefully hold the memory of the dean of my college who came to me and said, "You'll have whatever you need," when I couldn't get the ministerial reference from the minister I grew up with. The one voice still hurts, but the ones that rose up because of it are deeply, deeply cherished.

In the name of Christ, I was given a place to run to when I didn't know where I would go next, after deciding not to go ahead with my life plan--one that involved a move halfway across the country, two weeks later. There, I was reminded, again, that this life is not about the papers we earn or the things we achieve; everyone still matters, no matter what.

In the name of Christ, I was asked to teach and plan for little kids' life in the church. When I said yes, the transformation that took place was unlike anything I have ever known. The love was overwhelming, deep in side me. It was a Thing I had never known before.

In the name of Christ, I was given a free education. It sounds crazy to add that to the list, I know, but it matters a lot to me. If not for people who believed not in me, but just in the idea of me, I don't know how I would have paid for seven years of higher education. I cannot begin to list the transformations of college and seminary.

In the name of Christ, I was given Fruit Loops necklaces and an apron made out of a dishtowel. Those simple things are some of my earliest memories of being loved by someone not in my family. They were objects that represented welcome, hospitality by others in a community. Those things gave me a glimpse of how I could love and welcome, too.

In the name of Christ, I was taught to sing. I'm not a great singer; our culture has shifted so that church may be the only place for group singing. Yet, it is practice dear to my heart. The songs that I learned are often the prayers that I pray. They are the words I know when I cannot find words of my own. Often, in the afternoon, I sit in my office singing the ones I need to hear. I cannot imagine life without those words.

I'll choose to stop there, even though I could go on. I don't deny the brokenness of the church. It's visible to those within and without. But I'm still here and, God willing, I'll keep saying that. I'm still here because the greatest treasures in my life have been given to me in the name of Christ.

Tell Me Something Worth Hearing

Two or three Sundays a month, I attend an evening worship service at another congregation. Intentionally, it's not the same denomination as the one in which I minister. It's the liturgical style I prefer, despite the fact I will never minister in a similar style. It's a place of anonymity, for the most part, and one that I cherish.

It's interesting to be in that setting, one where always, no matter what happens, I will be an outsider. I don't make small talk. A couple of the ministers there know that I'm also a pastor, and graciously leave me alone. I smile and shake hands if necessary, but that's about it. I'm there to worship. I'm there to hear the Gospel. I'm there to receive the bread and the wine. I'm there to rest in God.

This practice has taught me a great deal about ministry. There's a reason I sit in this pew and pray alongside these people. Likely, I've already participated in two other services that days, services that aren't all that different from this one when it comes right down to nuts and bolts. It's the likely the third time I've received the bread and the wine--a whole other topic entirely.

I come because I want to have my spiritual hunger sated.

My own preparation for leading worship feeds that hunger. But there's never another time in my life when I get to sit, hear someone else read from my holy text, and simply let it wash over me. There's never another time when I sit in great anticipation to hear some bit of Gospel, something that will speak to my heart, draw me closer to God.

Unfortunately, some days, I walk away wondering why I bothered coming at all. Why, you ask?

Because our churches sometimes substitute the church's plans for the coming year for the Gospel.
Because our churches sometimes read the words of a denominational leader, that may be all well and good, but are words of guidance, not words of life.
Because our churches sometimes forget that studying the text is not the same as hearing a text.
Because sometimes, we're not sure what the Gospel is at all, and struggle to make it more palatable. 

The list goes on, but it's a list of things that mean we didn't proclaim the Gospel; often, that thing is that we worried more about our congregations and their lives, which yes, are important to the Gospel, but aren't synonymous with it.

I'm sure all churches do it. I'm sure, as a congregational leader, I've done it. But those seemingly wasted twilight hours have convinced me: I'll do better.

I'll pray for the word from the Lord. I'll wait to hear the word. I'll offer it to my parishioners, trusting that it is Good News to them. I'll exegete and study to the best of my ability. I'll remember the struggles of those around me. I will speak words of grace, words of comfort, words of hope and transformation, if God will provide them.

I'll do it because I've learned my deepest hope: that somewhere, somehow, someone is doing this for me. I've learned that I come because I need to hear.