Unlikely Saviors

If y'all have not been following the National Park Service Twitter, uhm, amazingness, then start Googling. See, it all started when the National Park Service retweeted photos comparing the crowds at Trump's inauguration to Obama's inauguration. They also retweeted one about the new administration removing pages from the White House website. After those, the Interior Department ordered a shutdown of their Twitter activity. They apologized for the retweets, then were back up.

Well, two days later, Badlands National Park started tweeting facts about climate change. These were seen as anti-Trump administration by many, went viral, and were later deleted. Yes, part of this is in response to the media blackout ordered by the new administration on the Environmental Protection Agency. The official story was that a former employee who was not authorized to use the account posted, so they were deleted in response to the compromise.

Since then, AltUSNatParkService has been created. Their tweet? "Can't wait for President Trump to call us FAKE NEWS. You can take our official twitter, but you'll never take our free time. All of that is background to get me to this morning, when checking news and social media, and a tweet that had been shared on imgur. I'm posting it, too, because it made my morning. It reads, "First they came for the scientists...And the National Parks Services said, "lol, no" and went rogue and we were all like, "I was not expecting the park rangers to lead the resistance, none of the dystopian novels I read prepared me for this but cool." Grammar and precision of language issues aside (and y'all know that takes a lot for me!), I'm in love with the idea shared. I might even enjoy hanging out with the original tweeter.

I'd probably love the NPS person more. And all the other people creating AltGovernmentAgencyTrumpDoesntLike accounts. One of them uses "Rogue" instead of alt.

I'm well aware of the privilege of this country. I'm well aware of my privilege within this country. I'm also well aware that what is happening now threatens not just our country, but our world. Still, as I wonder about healthcare, worry about a continued free press, and try to stay engaged with news I don't want to read, I am hopeful in unlikely saviors.

I am hopeful in church agencies that say, "We've always taken care of refugees and that won't change." I am hopeful in the organization happening at local levels to protect vulnerable communities of all sorts. I am hopeful in Dan Rather, pushing forward news--actual, researched, fact-checked news. (I mean, my family watched NBC not CBS, so Tom Brokaw's voice is what exudes truth, but I'll take Dan Rather.)

And yes, I'm hopeful in Twitter, the same platform that kept us abreast of the Arab spring. After all, that's where the rogue park rangers are hanging out. I don't throw around the term savior lightly; however, there are so many things and people that save us. Most of us have a lot of saviors in our lives.

At the end of the day, the one I recognize as the Savior was the most unlikely of all, poor Middle Eastern refugee executed by the state that he was. Jesus' unlikeliness gives me even more hope in other unlikely saviors. I'm one of the people who doesn't believe you have to work at following Jesus in order to make the things Jesus would want to happen, happen. (And yes, I also believe in cooperation with the divine will as a foundation of my faith.)

And perhaps the reason I am most hopeful is because the work that is beginning is hopeful. It is especially hopeful that we can and will sway the course of history toward the better. It is hopeful that it will not take violence to do it. It is hopeful that indeed, we can stand firm against the forces of evil and that will be sufficient to triumph over them.

Today, my hope is in unlikely saviors.

On the Eve of Inauguration Day

I confess my anxiety this week. It's not the overwhelming kind, but the lurking kind. As Trump's inauguration approaches, it's just been there, in the background. There's this dull hum to say that something isn't right.

Lots of people have been hoping deeply that Trump won't be as bad as everyone thinks he will be. I confess that I've been living by the Gospel according to Billy Joel: "The good ol' days weren't always good and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems."

As I worry about what healthcare will look like next year, in Maricopa County, nonetheless, where Marketplace options are already terrible, I'm searching for answers. My fears are minimal compared to many. I am white and Christian, after all. My stories of sexual harassment are few, though yes, all women have one or two. 

I turned to the Gospel of Matthew today, looking for the Jesus version instead of the Billy Joel version. Maybe, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life..." Or maybe the story of Jesus calming the storm, when he chastises the disciples, "You of little faith!"

And then, as I searched, I realized I wanted the stories of Israel's kings. The story begins with the people wanting a king like the nations around them; it didn't begin with a divine plan for a king. God gives them what they want, though, and then they have to live with it. In fact, when having the conversation with the last of the judges of Israel, Samuel, the people are given this warning about the kings they will have, "This is what the king who will reign over you will do: He will take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses, and they will run in front of his chariots. He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers. He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive groves and give them to his attendants. He will take a tenth of our grain and of your vintage and give it to his officials and attendants. Your menservants and maidservants and the best of your cattle and donkeys he will take for his own use. He will take a tenth of your flocks, and you yourselves will become his slaves. When that day comes, you will cry out for relief from the king you have chosen, and the Lord will not answer you in that day." (1 Samuel 8:11-18)

The cycle begins of bad king and good king, bad king and good king. One king turns the people to God, the next turns them away. The welfare of the land rises and falls accordingly. 

Let me be clear that I do not for a second believe the United States is a chosen nation, especially blessed by God, or anything like that. As I look at these stories, though, I am woefully aware of the truth they point to for us: we made this bed, and now we have to lie in it. 

Our individualistic tendencies ruffle at that thought. I include "my" in "our." I voted for Clinton. I stood in line. I said #imwithher. Still, I am part of the country that chose Trump, so yes I made this bed. We made this bed. In a nation that is still overwhelmingly Christian, we made this choice. And I am appalled.

I am appalled that professing Christians voted for a man who so completely opposes Christ's teachings. I am appalled that professing Christians voted to deny benefits to the poor, voted in fear of immigrants and refugees, voted to deny healthcare to many, voted to endanger women, voted in the name of wealth, voted in the name of weapons, voted in so many ways that have nothing to do with Christian scripture. I am appalled by how completely my fellow believers denied Christ. (No, I don't believe Jesus would be a Democrat; I do believe Trump is anti-Christ, having nothing to do with his party affiliation.)

As I cry out to God, along with so many others I know, "How? Why?" I am met only with silence--at least so far. I am far more worried that I might hear the answer of scripture, "You turned away from me." 

I'm not big on calling down fire and brimstone on people. I don't believe in hell. And yet, I cannot forget that Jesus said he would say in the future, "Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels."

Why? Why would Jesus do that? 

"For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me...I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me."

And so my deepest prayer comes: May God have mercy on us. 

May God have mercy on us.

Waiting for Dawn

I don't often post sermons here, but today I am posting this one, preached last Sunday. I wept for Aleppo today, as the city is back in government control, as people pray for a way out, as innocent people are dying. I say again, I have no doubt that we are sitting the shadow of death.

The text for Sunday was Luke 1:67-80, the Benedictus.

I have no doubt that we’re sitting in the shadow of death.

This week, a man walked into Community Christian Church in Tempe, shouting about the gay pride flag hanging from their belltower. He threatened to pay picketers to come to the church, and spread rumors about pedophiles in their church. He said he felt empowered to stop and say something because Trump is the president elect and he knew most people agreed with him. For those of you who don’t know, our church exists because of Community Christian Church.

I have no doubt that we’re sitting in the shadow of death.

Last Sunday, a woman I went to college with was murdered by her husband, who then committed suicide. They left a 10 year old, 5 year old and 3 year old behind. The two youngest of the three girls were later found alone in their home in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio by the aunt who called 911. Hours later, the bodies of their parents were found on an access road to a park near their home. No one knows for sure why it happened. Unlike most of these stories, there was no history of violence in the family.

I have no doubt that we’re sitting in the shadow of death.

I spoke with a woman this week who was looking for a place to give snuggly baby clothes and toys in honor of her nephew, who died during birth. Her sister has requested that their friends and family honor and mourn Jacob in this way, by giving items appropriate for the age he would be had he lived. Last year, Jacob’s mother, Martha, stopped to give Christmas clothes and toys appropriate for a 3 month old to a charity when a young woman with an infant came in, asking for clothes and toys. They’d just entered transitional housing. Martha was sure she saw a glimpse of the Christ child.

I have no doubt we’re sitting in the shadow of death.

Undoubtedly, this imagery of the shadow of death began with the idea of Sheol, the place of the dead where everyone went, regardless of how their life went. Like the Greek Hades, it was a shadowy place, never day nor night, just as it was neither good nor bad. Sheol, for ancient Israelites, was at the end of the waters at the edge of the world, held back by gates. Shadows literally came with death. We, who I’d guess have as many thoughts on the afterlife as people in the room, and maybe more, definitely don’t think about a shadowy place at the end of the world, though there have been a couple scifi movies who put it at the end of the universe. And still, I can say: I have no doubt we’re sitting in the shadow of death.

My family is waiting for a woman who has been part of our family in some way for over thirty years to die. Her story, including the cancer that is slowly killing her, is a story of alcohol and drug abuse, of imprisoned partners, of prostitution and jail time. It’s also why I say she’s part of our family in some way because those ways have been varied in those thirty years. Both of her sons have nearly died in the last year from drug-related illnesses. Their livelihood was based in drug trafficking, so the money has dried up as well. The foster system failed them, too, removing and returning them to her multiple times in their childhood, but never getting them somewhere that allowed them to leave their mother’s habits behind. 

I have no doubt we’re sitting in the shadow of death.

And as I tell these stories I’m struck by their sheer rawness, and difficulty, and impoliteness. These aren’t things we talk about often, or together, or publicly. These are the things we keep quiet and hope they never happen again, knowing they probably will. As I drive down the road with “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” coming from the radio, the song seems wildly out of place in some way, not just because nothing here looks like Currier & Ives.

We often read from the prophet Isaiah during Advent. Today, I remind you of the call of Isaiah 64, “Oh that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

There’s a fabulous, raw Advent devotional you can check out, with the #rendtheheavens, drawing from this prayer from Isaiah, this prayer for something else, for divine intervention here and now.

Oh that you would tear open the heavens and come down,

So that the mountains would quake at your presence—

As when fire kindles brushwood

And the fire causes water to boil—

To make known your name to your adversaries,

So that the nations might tremble at your presence!

Tear open the heavens and come down! Or as Zechariah puts it: save us from this shadow of death.

It is why we celebrate Advent before Christmas, after all, hoping that God will tear the heavens open and come down among us. It’s why we first name the brokenness that means we need a Savior, rather than jumping ahead to something far more pleasing, like an infant in a manger.

And here, I am grateful for the wisdom and goodness of God, who did not opt to give us exactly what we wanted. Instead, we get these words from Zechariah, upon the birth of his son, John, a prophet before Jesus:

You, child, will be called a prophet of the Most High,

                  for you will go before the Lord to prepare his way.

You will tell his people how to be saved

                   through the forgiveness of their sins.

Because of our God’s deep compassion,

 the dawn from heaven will break upon us,

                    to give light to those who are sitting in darkness

                    and in the shadow of death,

                  to guide us on the path of peace.”

We get the promise of the dawn from heaven breaking upon us, the dayspring that makes it into many of our hymns. The shadow of death is chased away, yes, but not in a violent ripping open to end what is happening now. That’s a solution of brokenness, after all. That’s like mom coming in thanks to the screams in the bedroom where kids were playing and no one being happy once it’s over. God’s solution is one of wholeness: a dawn from heaven, which promises something new rather than destruction.

It’s a reminder that God creates, not destroys. And God creates for us, out of deep compassion for us.

We’re promised the opposite of tearing open the heavens, coming down, and everything trembling at the power of God: peace, shalom, wholeness

It’s hard to know exactly what those words mean. We know they point away from violence, and addiction, death and loss. We know they point toward love. We know they heal what is broken, replace what is shattered. We need the Christ child to help us understand more fully. Remaking the world in our own image tends to make things worse, not better. We rend the heavens; God sends the dawn of a new way of being.

Now, as we sit in the shadow of death, waiting for the dawn, the coming of Christ, we carry with us this deepest hope and trust: the shadow of death does not prevail.

Christmas Gifts

My church is doing Advent cards this year from SALT project, instead of a traditional Advent calendar. Today's challenge, "Find a little--or a big!--way to be generous today: hold the door open for someone, pay for someone's coffee, do a stranger a simple favor."

I confess, it didn't change my plans for today. It did make me think differently about one of my plans: stopping by the local community center. It's not one of the city run community centers, but a nonprofit. Its services are things like reading classes for kid and helping people get on SNAP and WIC. Today, I was dropping off peanut butter from my church and gifts for Christmas from my partner, Matt, and me.

We collect the peanut butter once a month, so I most always have some small stash to drop off. Today, it was around fifty pounds of peanut butter, which will be used to stock emergency food boxes for families. The gifts are a tradition Matt and I started the first year we were dating. Our gift to each other is limited to an ornament, spending $20 or less. Instead, we spend money on a family without resources to give gifts to their kids.

As we're shopping, I'm aware that, in some ways, this is a selfish choice. It's really fun to shop for Christmas presents for kids. We're shopping because a parent or caregiver isn't able to shop. We get to decide what it is best for the kids. We feel good about it when it's all done. It's also something most people would think of as an act of generosity.

This year, we dropped off a bag near filled with a set of books, a toy, an outfit, and a pair of shoes for each child in the family. The center is trying to get some consistency across gifts, so there were fewer things than in years past. I still think the kids will have a decent Christmas even if their mom can't come up with any other gifts. When I tucked the gift receipts into a Christmas card for her, I debated whether or not to sign our names. I ended up not. "Abby and Matt" wouldn't reveal much, but I felt better with her not knowing, letting her imagine who else cared about her kids.

I think about that nudge to be generous in some way today, and it feels weird. In part, at least, it's because generosity seems to always imply money. I like that the creators include things having nothing to do with money. Apparently, I look like I know where I'm going, so people often ask me for directions when I'm walking places; I'd never counted that as generous.

For me, what many would also call generosity is better called faithfulness. I think of generosity as giving extravagantly. My resources don't allow me to do that. Instead, I give regularly, faithfully, and rarely impulsively--at least when it comes to money. Even this Christmas gift adventure was part of how I was taught that.

As a child, when my family was barely making ends meet, we bought gifts for the children most in need in our school. If I remember correctly, grandparents and an aunt and uncle participated, too. Likely, they bore the bulk of the financial burden. This was before angel trees existed. In a rural community, people know. As children, we were included in picking out gifts for our classmates, including many conversations about how we should never, ever mention this at school. Gifts were dropped off at homes, quietly, along with food for the holidays. One year, a boy in my class brought the Beetlejuice house shoes I had chosen for him to school to show off. He had no problem telling everyone where they came from, which I told my mother as soon as I got home.

In a season when there is pressure to buy, and maybe buy some more, and then pick up something for that person you forgot, we would do well to turn to our faithfulness rather than a fleeting desire to be generous. What have we chosen to do with our resources? What are we investing in beyond ourselves? Which of our hopes for the world are we fulfilling with what we have to offer?

Happy Holidays, Y'all!

The holidays are officially upon us, with Thanksgiving falling tomorrow.

Folks, these are the days for which Jesus exists. Yes, I'm aware Christmas/Jesus' birthday/all that/yada, yada, yada. That's not what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about holidays. I realize there are many people who get extra warm and fuzzy and think this is the best time of the year. If you let me wrap all your packages, I may become one of those people. As is, I want to cuddle with the Grinch a reasonable amount of the time.

Y'all know what I'm talking about. "No, grandma, he's not my roommate. He's my boyfriend. You know that. We've been living together for ten years. I'm not interested in girls. I told you that twenty years ago. It hasn't changed."

Of course, there are the classics: "When are you getting married?" "Have you met a nice boy/girl yet?" "Oh, you can't fool me, I see that bump. I won't tell anyone until you're ready!" Surprise, nope, not a baby. That's sugar cookies. Specifically, that's all the sugar cookies I'm currently stress eating to deal with you, Aunt Hilda.

These are the days that you need Jesus. Now, Jesus only commanded to you love your neighbors, realizing that family is far harder. For family, he went with "Anyone who loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." Based on personal experience, I would not recommend quoting this particular passage to your father or mother. It has a reasonable chance of not ending well.

I also do not recommend passive aggressive actions, which tend to be my go-to coping skills. Hiding the remote control, for example, to annoy your football watching dad. Or just walk to another room when the conversation becomes unbearable. It's especially fun when the conversation was primarily one person peppering you with questions.

Again, not me, but Jesus. Jesus said to love your enemies. (Cough, that one cousin.) Jesus said to pray for those who persecute you. Persecution may even include Uncle Joe, at least for the next month. The other eleven months, not so much.

Most of all, though, Jesus can help you find your people. There's a reason Jesus-following people hang out together. Those people will give you a chance to do good for people in need. Those people will give you a chance to talk about all your family crazy. Those Jesus-following people will remind you that there's a whole bunch of stuff beyond you, and turn you toward that. Jesus can help you find your people, who will love you and your significant other, no matter who they are. Jesus can help you find your people who ask just the right amount of questions. Jesus can help you find the people you need.

So seriously, this holiday, find Jesus, or at least some Jesusy people. They'll redeem the crazy siblings, the off-kilter in-laws (I should note, my in-laws are amazing. I have to say this. They read my blog.), the cousins you see once a year at most. They'll redeem the drunken uncle or the very, very dry holiday gathering that would be better if you could just have a little tequila.

In this season, when it's easy to get sucked inward, to get stressed out, to be driven mad by those people with whom you share a bloodline, you need Jesus. You need Jesus to remind you there's something else that matters, even when you're on your fourth Thanksgiving dinner thanks to your particular version of family.

I'm reminding myself of this, too, as I'm over here stockpiling chocolate to stress eat.

Oh--and Happy Holidays, y'all!

Woman at the Well

The story of the woman at the well is one that haunts my imagination. Do you remember it? She's only in John's telling of the Gospel. She comes to the community well in the middle of the day, apart from the other women of the community. Jesus asks her for a drink of water and she is shocked. After all, she is a Samaritan and he is a Jew. They talk and he knows all about her. It reasonable to think most people do, given that she's been married five times and the man she lives with now is not her husband.

She's not the likely character for a theological conversation. She and Jesus have one any way, talking about living water. When she leaves the well, she understands better than the disciples do. She tells everyone in the city about Jesus.

In recent years, commentary has moved away from worrying about her sexual sins to talking about her being exploited. Ancient customs aside, women who have been married several times tend to have been exploited by their partners. Her story is far too common in the world we live in. Our concern about the number of baby daddies a woman has makes that all too clear.

I don't know what the story of her five husbands was, but I know the stories of others.

She had a baby at fifteen with her high school boyfriend. Their high school taught abstinence only; they didn't know there was contraception. Well, that assumes they had much information at all about what they were doing. She got kicked out of her parents' house, but he said he'd get a job and they'd figure it out. Before she was seventeen, he was gone.

Within a couple of months, she was living with their next door neighbor. He was much older and creeped her out, but he would take her in. There was money left over at the end of the month sometimes to buy extra things. There was always food in the house. She couldn't make it on her own, any way. One night, when there wasn't money left over or food in the house, he hit her. It happened a few more times before she landed in the emergency room. The social worker helped her get to a shelter. The shelter helped her find a job.

All of that wasn't enough, so she moved in with a man she thought she loved a few months later. They wanted a baby together, so they had one. He told her all the time how lucky she was to have him, how good it was that she could find anyone willing to take her in. She knew he was right, so she didn't push back very often at all. When he hit her the first time, she knew she deserved it. He told her he'd get both her kids if she ever tried to leave. He had to be right. He was always right. When bruises showed up on her oldest, a teacher reported it. The social worker removed her kids and offered to get her help as well.

The housing projects she ended up in were better than she imagined, at least for a while. She had her kids back with her now. And here, her story would repeat. Abusive cycles tend to repeat themselves, after all. That's just the rule. The next partner could start selling drugs or using drugs or something else that comes often with people living in poverty. One of the most horrifying stories I've ever heard was about a woman who was told to marry her rapist. She wanted an abortion, but ended up at a Christian pro-life clinic thanks to a bait and switch. They told her it was her fault and she needed to marry him if he'd have her. That would fix everything. That story has been told in a million different ways throughout history.

I let the story of the woman at the well haunt me because I've met too many women like her. Maybe they'd only had one or two terribly failed relationships, but they were used to the guilt and shame. They were used to the whispers and the looks. The story of the woman at the well reminds me that women's issues are the church's issues.

The day following the election, I signed up to be in a local production of The Vagina Monologues. It was one of the most tangible, immediately available ways that I could imagine to talk about violence against women and other women's issues. Actually, there are all sorts of things it brings up that aren't often part of polite conversation. If the President-elect gets away with joking about sexual assault, though, you better believe I'm going to talk about the horrors of sexual assault and all the other terrible things done to women.

If I wanted to, I could talk so many things related to this choice, including plenty of secular feminism that we don't talk about enough in church. At the end of the day, though, I'm doing this on behalf of the woman at the well. May the unwritten parts of her story haunt us all.

On Election Day

I waited until today to vote. Early voting just doesn't feel right to me for some reason. For all the incivility of this election season, as I got ready this morning, I was struck by the civility of this process.

I checked my wallet for my driver's license and voter ID card. I double checked my precinct since my polling location is home for two precincts. I added a number to call if there was a problem with voting into my phone, not for my own sake, but because the people voting in my precinct are racially diverse, speaking a few different languages. I'm also aware that being well-informed and feeling like you have recourse is too often a place of privilege. I well remember two years ago, when voter turnout wasn't nearly as high. Still, I helped a young woman figure out her documentation in order to vote. She had everything she needed, but her English was limited. Signs, of course, are only in English.

This morning, it wasn't needed. The poll workers were plentiful and helpful. The line for my precinct was much longer than the adjacent one, where people just walked in. Still, it was all of a fifteen minute wait to vote, if not a little shorter. The poll workers would occasionally come out and make an announcement to ensure everyone was in the correct line. I helped one woman sort out her precinct. There was a young man doing the same; I'm pretty sure it was the first time he ever voted.

The lines moved; we were ushered forward with gentleness and kindness. A scripted question echoed after presenting ID, "Do you need any help with your ballot?" At least I think that was it. I deposited my own ballot into the machine and was thanked for voting. I was the 182nd person in my precinct to go through that process today. I imagine it was much the same for everyone.

I remember a line from The West Wing in an election cycle, "Every four years, we get to overthrow the government. Vote!" In a totally different episode, Sam Seaborn reflects on the civility of the Boston Tea Party, complete with calligraphy and parchment.

I am reminded today that this experience is one of incredibly privilege. A hundred years ago, I could not have voted. For all the calls to violence that have happened at various points in this season, we still operate on the assumption that we will go to the polls, we will vote, the votes will be counted, and we'll learn to live with the winner. We anticipate a peaceful transfer of power come January, even in our presidential election.

For the most part, we will continue to live in the same communities, no matter what. Our kids will still go to school together. We'll shop at the same grocery stores. We'll drive on the same roads. While we may be anywhere from annoyed to angry, we'll figure out life together for now.

As someone in a religious tradition that has splintered into no fewer than three (and perhaps more) versions of the Church, from a tradition that broke off and splintered a few more times, I wish we'd taught the story of unity better. I wish we'd taught the story of choosing to live together through difficult times and places better. I wish we'd lived out what we have long professed: that Christ unites us more than our differences.

No matter how this election goes, we have the chance to do that better.

"There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for all are one in Christ Jesus."