For These Saints

I know so many of the names scrolling on the screen. Two are men from the congregation I serve now. I planned and preached their funerals, actually. Yet, most of the names I recognize were never Disciples of Christ, at least not denominationally speaking. They were, most certainly, disciples of Christ, functionally speaking. Some, of course, were better disciples than others, or at least less crazy disciples. 

One was the father of one of my college professors. I only knew him well after he was the president of a seminary. He still tried to convince me to attend that seminary, though. 

Another was a legendary professor at my undergraduate institution. Let's just say the legends about him were not exactly favorable, but legends nonetheless. 

Another was the wife of an Old Testament professor. In between the leaving of one professor and the hiring of another, he came out of retirement to teach a class. 

A grandfather of a classmate. One of the little old ladies who was in assisted living when I led worship services there. If the city listed with the name was Johnson City or Elizabethton, Tennessee, the name was likely familiar. 

They're all people I remembered from a life in a different tradition, and a life very different from the one I lead now. There are so, so many twists and turns to end up in that auditorium, watching the names scroll across the screen.

Oh--and those names: in worship at each General Assembly, the Pension Fund of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) submits a list of names of those members who have died in the two years since the last General Assembly. There was a time when I could tell you the history in depth, but that time has passed. I know, however, that while the Pension Fund is Disciples of Christ, they offer their services to pastors in all of the Stone-Campbell Movement. I'm sure that's because the Pension Fund existed long before the restructure of Disciples of Christ that created a couple of different entities that were once one. Perhaps the greatest failure of that Stone-Campbell movement is that it splintered in to multiple groups at all. The tradition that valued unity, that hoped for unity, that prayed for unity, couldn't hold onto it, either. 

Yet, there is this beautiful confession at each General Assembly: these who have died are ours. They are ours as disciples of Christ if not Disciples of Christ. They are ours in their beauty and in their flaws. They are ours because because we are all the Church, even if our churches don't get along so well. Even in that brokenness of Church, still we can commend all of these saints to God.

For this beautiful gesture of grace in these names scrolling across a screen, I am deeply grateful. After all, the God who loves all, who created all, will surely welcome all in whatever comes after. Thanks be to God that we can recognize all our saints even in our brokenness. 

#blessed

I still remember that Maggie, two years older than me, called me "four eyes" when I was in school.

I know I was older than Kindergarten by then, because it did not cause me to totally rebel against going to school. Had I still been in Kindergarten, it would have. My grandfather paid me fifty cents a day to go to Kindergarten and not cry, after all.

My tiny elementary school closing after my fourth grade year was absolutely terrible. I can't help but think my life would have been easier if my new English teacher hadn't said to one of the other students, "The competition has arrived."

Middle school is a torture all its own. Gah. I don't even want to think about that.

On Sunday, we'll bless the backpacks of kids headed to school in the next weeks. Well, I'll be out of town, but lay leaders will bless the backpacks just the same. We're giving them luggage tags, bearing the reminder, "Love God. Love others. Love yourself."

We'd be crazy not to admit that school is hard for kids. It's hard for smart kids and not so smart kids, shy kids and outgoing kids. It's hard for all sorts of reasons.

And as we bless backpacks for these kids, I can't help but think of how often things are tagged #blessed or spoken of as blessed. I'm not much on hashtags in any form nor would I likely say something about being blessed. I do know, however, that the word is usually used for things viewed in a positive way. Something good happens. Someone good happens. Good. That's what blessed has come to mean.

These kids' backpacks will be blessed, though, regardless of how good or bad the school year turns out to be. They will be blessed because the church said to God, "Please bless this." The church said to God, "This tangible reminder of school and all that entails is important enough to warrant your attention."

We hope the kids will get good grades, have friends, and stay out of trouble. We know that won't always be true. That doesn't mean the blessing didn't take. The blessing is a hope that good things happen, but it's a confession that even if terrible things happen, God will still be present.

Contrary to popular usage, blessed is a state of being, not an outcome. It has little to do with whether what is currently happening could be called good by anyone on the outside looking it. We bless babies, and houses, and worship spaces, and cars, and relationships, and all sorts of things. We bless them because we confess that God cares about this, too. As Church, we know that baby is blessed even if she gets cancer. We know that worship space is blessed even if we can't pay the mortgage. We know that relationship is blessed even if neither person is sure it will continue.

Like many reign of God things, blessing is part of seeing differently, counting differently, knowing things are different. By being blessed, something becomes God's, even if there's no immediate evidence it would be called good.

That may be the best news of all. For many of us are just doing the best we can, trying to follow God, slipping up along the way, wondering where God is in all of these. That doesn't change that we are #blessed, called God's own. For that, thanks be to God.

To the Trolls

"Don't feed the trolls," I told the other admin for my church's Facebook page. The trolls do not want to talk. The trolls just want to yell at someone. Trolls are always angry, it seems. The ones who email via the church website don't provide email addresses so we can contact them. Neither do they put return addresses on the regular mail they send. Trolls just troll.

The crappy part is, we'd often like conversations with the trolls. My congregation has this crazy idea that Jesus really did welcome everyone and calls us to do the same. Even if we're not too sure we'd like hanging out with the trolls, we believe Jesus calls us to hang out with the trolls.

I could tell you so many interesting things about communication from the trolls, but here's my favorite and the most often occurring version, "You(r church) need(s) to read X." X is always a Bible verse or set of Bible verses. Always. Verses from Romans and Leviticus are favorites for our trolls, who are usually upset about us welcoming LGBT people.

And here is my response to the trolls: what makes you think we haven't?

What makes you think we haven't read the holy writings of our tradition? Really? Do you think we skipped that?

It might be easier if we did, actually. If we skipped reading the Bible, we wouldn't know the texts support slavery, no mental acrobatics needed. If we skipped reading the Bible, we wouldn't be more than a little freaked out by all the violence. I mean, have you read Judges? If we skipped reading the Bible, we could pretend one man, one woman madly in love with each other is an accurate definition of biblical marriage.

We read the Bible, and we wrestle with what to do with the violence, the slavery, the sexism, and all the other weirdness of these writings handed down to us from worlds far different than ours. We read the Bible, from beginning to end, and go back to wrestle more. In fact, those of us who have had proof texts shouted at us to name our sin are often the ones who can quote chapter and verse. Trust me, this lady preacher knows all about "Let your women keep silent."

We've read it and we're still Christian. We're still Christian because there is Truth beyond all the things that give us pause. That Truth speaks to us, calls us to this place, and breathes abundant life into us. We're Christian because despite those verses you so want us to read, this faith has taught us to love more fully and deeply than we ever thought possible. It's almost like it's a miracle of the Spirit or something.

We live in the hope that God's reign is taking over at this very moment and that, somehow, we are participating in that reign. In that hope, we bury our dead and welcome our babies. In that hope, we give food to people whose bodies are hungry and share in the worries of those whose souls are hungry. In that hope, we see life instead of death, joy instead of sorrow, abundance instead of scarcity. In that hope, we look at the violence, the slavery, the sexism, the hate, the things in our world that are the most terrifying and the most horrible and we cry out, "God will redeem this."

That is our faith, dear trolls. And trust me, we've read that verse you mentioned.

Confessions from a Southerner

Not many days ago, I bought sand, candles, and nine small glass vases for our worship service, to mark the murders at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina. We spoke their names, prayed for the church, lit the candles. Since then, I've prayed and I hope others have as well. Our denominational leaders in the Carolinas issued a letter, calling for prayer during the week following the murders, especially for how we address racism.

I'm proud to say that in my predominantly white congregation, we can talk about racism and how deeply it's entrenched. I, and we, hope to be allies. I know we could do more.

As I sit in Arizona, most of a continent away from Charleston, I'm also haunted by my own demons. You see, I'm a Southerner. Yes, I'm a border state Southerner, young enough that I've rarely heard the Civil War referred to as the War of Northern Aggression, but still a Southerner. The killer who walked into Emanuel AME Church, who prayed among people who became his victims, is a little too familiar for comfort.

I choose not to know if people I went to high school with have joined white supremacist groups, but I'm certain some have. Culturally, it's not a very far leap.

Students went hunting before school; guns were just part of life, as was carrying a pocketknife to school for that matter. If I remember correctly, there was a 2.5" blade limit. Confederate flags were common. One of the cooler guys had the same horn on his truck as the General Lee on the Dukes of Hazzard. If you're not familiar, it's "Dixie." Yes, "Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten," Dixie.

There were lots of poor white people and almost no people who weren't white. Still, I've heard the question, "Do you really think they're like us?" Everyone remembered that the original version of the state song for Kentucky has the word "darkeys" in it. Students scoffed that didn't attend school on Martin Luther King Day. Looking back, the epithets used for the day are appalling. If I misbehaved, my grandfather told me he'd have to go buy a little girl to replace me. You can guess the color of that imaginary child's skin.

All of that is the surface version of racism that is so deeply entrenched that white supremacists with plenty of guns are more common than most people would like to admit. And yes, all of that is deeply tied to being Southern. I've seen my share of "Heritage, not Hate" Confederate flag memorabilia. I know all the words to Hank Williams Jr.'s "If the South Woulda Won." For better or worse, Southern is part of who I am, even if my accent has long faded.

This picture was taken in worship this past Sunday, July 21. It shook me in a different way. The little girl's dress looks suspiciously like the dresses I wore to church most Sundays when I was her age. I don't know if she wore a scratchy slip underneath to add volume to her skirt, but I sure did. The immaculate dress of the man holding the door open, that's familiar, too. So's the paneling in the background, the bulletin board. The door is larger and grander than any church I attended as a child, but the other things are weirdly, remarkably the same. These are all the markings of Sunday in the South. There's a country song or two about that.

Roots run deep. So does fear. Fear that tells us who we are involves guns and a flag and General Lee. Fear that tells us skin color does matter. Perhaps the deepest, most haunting fear of all: it could be my brother, or cousin, or high school prom date pulling the trigger against innocent people. As a result, we end up clinging to relics, shouting at anyone who would dare say they're a problem.

God and Google know how many blog posts and articles you could find on combatting systemic racism. Read them. Practice the things that are suggested. This very pale Southerner has confessed what she can.

God help us to do better.

Bouncy Balls and the Handwriting of 8 Year Olds

"Very truly I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice." John 10:1-4

I've never liked the Good Shepherd portion of John. In general, John is a text I love to read and hate to preach on. Even at that, I've always figured I'd be just fine if John had skipped that particular passage. That probably says more about me than any one or anything else. And I know it. I live in a city to preserve my anonymity, at least if I choose. I don't like having an entire town that can recognize my car, much less always end up in a conversation in the grocery store. Deep familiarity isn't appealing to me.

Except it is. In fact, the familiarity of community is for me one of the deepest, holiest parts of church. On some days, I could drop the "one of." There's beautiful simplicity in community. There's beauty in deep familiarity, someone knowing you, someone welcoming you. Cheers was right: "Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came."

Each Sunday, there are a few people whose footsteps I recognize long before I see them--those bringing walkers and baby strollers in particular. Other voices are distinct. Some even arrive at incredibly predictable times.

The rhythms of my life are tied to their lives in strange ways. On Monday mornings, as I correct attendance taken by a lay leader and sift through a pile of attendance slips, I smile when I see the handwriting of an 8 year old. It's her job to fill out her family's attendance slip each week. I can attest that her penmanship has improved a great deal during 2nd grade. This morning, as I walked out to the mailbox to see if I'd gotten a notice for an undeliverable Amazon order, something red in the dirt caught my eye. I dusted off a red bouncy ball. I'm pretty sure it belongs to a four year old boy who was distraught when he lost it under the bushes. I put it on my desk to give back to him on Sunday.

Before I sat down at my desk this morning, I had to put away the board game he'd taken out of the box while his mom was meeting with worship participants. He currently has a fascination with all the games under my desk, stored there between our Thursday game nights. The pieces are intriguing, but never lost. He always puts it away as well as a four year old can put away a game designed for people a few years older.

Familiarity, after all, means people know what you need. It means safety, in most cases. It means a place where it's easy to be. It's home. It's someone you know, who calls you by name, all in the name of the Shepherd. I like that story more all the time.

At the Mosque Last Night

It's been a long time since I walked into some place with police present just in case something happened. I was among the many who walked into the Islamic Community Center of Phoenix last night in support of the community that faced protestors on Friday night. The mosque was packed with Christians, Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, and people from a few other faiths. Surprising to me, a huge spectrum of Christians were present. One of the speakers for the evening is Nazarene; I admit they wouldn't have made my list of friends of Muslims. A few children were scattered among those sitting on the floor. I smiled when I saw the tall, African-American man sporting a cowboy hat, giant belt buckle, and handlebar mustache there. There were clerics in collars and stoles. There were people with dark skin and very light skin. It was one of the most diverse gatherings of people I've seen in quite some time.

The few chairs set out for those who couldn't easily sit on the floor filled quickly. (Mosques typically have only a few chairs, since Muslims pray with their bodies and their words.) Elderly men and women found seats on the floor, instead. I wasn't particularly comfortable. I know beyond a doubt they weren't. But they still sat there, stayed there, refusing to abandon their neighbors.

I don't know how many people showed up. They were expecting 600; it was more than that. Some said the number was near 1000. I don't know. There were piles of shoes outside the worship area and piles of flowers inside, brought as requested as a sign of peace. The parking lots were full, despite the fact that most people carpooled. I proved my Chevy Sonic can, indeed, fit four adults in it. The evening was holy, for no other reason than so many people inconvenienced themselves enough to show up and say, "You matter to us."

Most reports of the evening won't mention the man with a megaphone outside the gates. I'm glad they won't, but I will. He used his megaphone to tell us we would burn in hell, we would be converted, the flowers we carried may as well be flowers for our graves. He spoke of human rights violations, particularly women's rights, and how wrong we were to support Muslims who commit vile crimes against women. He went through the same list of warnings over and over.

And I know he's right. There are Muslims who hate women. There are Muslims who force conversion. There are Muslims who do all sorts of stomach-turning, deplorable things. The same is true for Christians. And Jews. And Sikhs. And white men. And Americans. And Europeans. And Africans. And people in wheelchairs. And left-handed doctors who live in houses on cul-de-sacs. And all sorts of other categories of people. There are truly despicable people in every category you can come up with. But most are not.

So yes, there are some Muslims who hate women, and force conversion, and would love me in a grave. There are some Muslims who join and lead militant groups. There are some Muslims who do just about everything.

On the floor of a mosque, seated among both friends and strangers, I am grateful so many people realize that some Muslims do not represent all Muslims. I am especially grateful for the Muslim neighbors whom I've learned to call friends.

Postage Stamps

I smile every time I put postage stamps on something at the office. I smile because I remember the woman who sold them to me, or at least our conversation.

I'm more than a little uptight about flags and such in churches. We can have that conversation any time, but well, not here and now. Unfortunately, to get stamps with something other than flags on them, one must go to a post office. The last time the church needed them, it was a stop on my way to somewhere else, so I told the secretary I'd just pick them up.

I waited in line, of course, because that's what you do at the post office. The conversation went like this:

"Do you have rolls of forever stamps in anything other than flags?"

"No. But we have lots of designs in sheets."

"Well, it's for a church…" (I had no clue how to finish that sentence. I try hard not to start a debate of any sort in an encounter that should be purely transactional. Yes, this is a learned skill for me.)

"Oh! Love! We have all sorts of those."

And she handed me an assortment of stamps, one hundred total, with all sorts of love designs: a heart in sealing wax, roses, words in a heart shape, flowers in a heart shape.

On the rare occasions I put a stamp on something, I'm pretty much like a little kid choosing a favorite sticker now.

Mostly, though, I think of that postal worker, and her exclamation, "Oh! Love!" In a time when I worry about the church's reputation of being anti-LGBT, dogmatic, legalistic, hypocritical, and a whole bunch of other not good things, all of which make me hesitant to say, "I'm a pastor," her response was life-giving.

Because when people hear "church," I wish more of them were able to exclaim, "Oh! Love!"