Maybe I Have Something to Say...

Ferguson, MO, feels about a million miles away from where I live now. As I have read news from there since last month, I cannot help but feel what seems like an immeasurable distance from what has happened there. This was not always so for me. I grew up not all that far down Interstate 44 from the St. Louis area. My parents both taught in the Ferguson-Florissant school district in the late 60s. They even met and got married at Ferguson UMC, I believe. I know enough of their stories to know that any claims I heard denying racial tension prior to the last two months are not quite accurate.

Still, I don't know a whole lot about Ferguson, MO, now. Most of the people where I live now have never been anywhere near there. Many of them didn't care about Ferguson before August...and honestly, they still don't today. So on Sunday, August 17^th, I did not say much about what had happened there. Though we lifted up the people there in prayer, and though I touched briefly on racism as a challenge the church in America faces, I did not make any fiery proclamations from the pulpit that day. I spoke no deeply moving prophetic word. I had friends who posted on Facebook that every pastor’s preaching should have been prophetic that day. And I felt guilty...

In the days and weeks since then, I have wondered what I could say, what I, perhaps, should have said. As a United Methodist minister, I am used to being someone who's "not from around here," and that makes a difference in how and what I preach. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to say something, though…

I have tried to figure out what I do have to say, as I've read and heard more about the Michael Brown story and Ferguson, MO. And what I keep thinking about is another place that feels about a million miles away from here, but is actually quite a bit closer: Knoxville, TN. Specifically, a neighborhood called Mechanicsville. I've been thinking about Mechanicsville because for two years, between graduate programs, I worked there. Every weekday, and sometimes on the weekends, I drove the short distance from the Bearden area (a “suburb” of Knoxville) into Mechanicsville, to a place called the Wesley House Community Center. I wrote lesson plans, hired staff, drove vans to schools, and became part of something this white girl from a small town in central Missouri might scarcely have imagined was possible: a community where we didn't all look alike or get along all the time, but we did what we could to take care of children who needed to be loved and who just needed some of the chances that those kids down the street in Bearden had plenty of. Nothing was perfect there. Some people were suspicious of me, and I could understand why. Lots of times, I or someone else thought maybe I wasn't right for that job. Plenty of times, staff let me down, kids misbehaved, resources were not what I would have liked them to be. It's the story of the inner city. It's the story of people who are all too often holding on with all their might to a few remaining threads of dignity that a broken system begrudgingly affords them only because they are, after all, human. And it's not fair. And I left there knowing that I will still never know what it's like to live that way, no matter how deeply I was pulled into their stories and no matter how much my heart broke for them. My story will never have the tragic circumstances of many of theirs, in large part because of where I was born and what kind of advantages my family had and what I look like, and a host of other circumstances that in many ways boil down to dumb luck.

So why am I writing this? What am I trying to say? Maybe, if you'll allow me to share something that could be offensive, I could sum it up like this: when I started at the Wesley House Community Center, in many ways, the black kids looked a lot alike to me and I didn’t always understand what they were talking about. When I left there, I had more trouble telling the white kids apart than I did the black kids. I know that sounds horrible or ridiculous or just absolutely offensive. What it means to me, though, is that in those two years, children who didn't look a thing like me became my children. People I might otherwise never have met became some of my closest friends. We shared a passion for the children we cared for, if almost nothing else. I also came to understand how deeply ingrained some stereotypes were that I didn’t even realize affected me. I faced parts of me that were uncomfortable, groundless fears and misunderstandings that were easier to rationalize than to admit and let go of. I didn’t leave there perfect, by any means, but I left there changed in ways that I will always cherish.

But this is all not to say in some veiled way, "I have some black friends." That's not really what I'm trying to say at all. What I learned in those two years, among other things, is that believing someone else is part of a "them" made no more sense than denying any part of my own self I might not want someone to notice. As long as there is a "them," we have a problem. No, I will never know what it is to be a person of color in the United States. I acknowledge that. But I do know that as long as someone who doesn't look or act like me is one of "them," whomever "them" is, simply because we are different, then I fail to be faithful to what I know and have experienced of the God who created us all and offers grace and love beyond measure to all people.

I miss Knoxville. I miss the reminders of lessons I learned about difference and perspective and justice...and how I have learned very little of these lessons outside of the inner city, no matter how intelligent or learned or sympathetic I think I am. What happened in Ferguson, MO, is not tragic simply because of its happening. It is tragic because it is not a singular incident. I can’t begin to tell you what I would give for it to be the last of its kind, to know that no one else's child would lie lifeless on a street somewhere, not those I once worked with in Knoxville, not those anywhere else...and to know that no one's child would feel compelled to have taken that life away, in a moment of fear, misunderstanding, passion. We belong to God—all of us. I pray I will continue to learn that, no matter where I am in ministry. And I pray this nation and our world will grow to learn that, even as we continue to wait for God’s redemption of the whole of creation.

My Most Difficult Funeral...So Far...

Two weeks ago, the funeral home called me and asked me to do a service for a family that didn't regularly attend church and who had just had twin baby girls delivered already dead, at 29 weeks. The enormity of this task took some time to dawn on me (I got the call in the middle of the first night of VBS), and I finally sat before my computer late that Sunday night, with my Book of Worship open at my side, feeling as though I had absolutely nothing to say to this family.

Ultimately, I came up with something to say, thanks in large part to spending enough time in prayer and listening to the Holy Spirit, even in the short amount of time I had--well, those things and spending time looking through the Book of Worship and finding more helpful resources than I initially realized were there...and I got it all together, not a moment too soon. And I held it together reasonably enough to read through it...while my heart was torn to shreds by the situation. I share this message with you, in the hope that maybe someone else will need to read this and also that someone else could offer me thoughts in how to feel better equipped to minister in situations like this again. What could I say differently or better, in this kind of situation? I appreciate any insights on this.

Here's what I wrote and said (for the most part), aside from the liturgy:

Scripture Readings

Psalm 103:13-19

Mark 10:13-16

I have to be honest with you—I’ve never done a service like this before. I have struggled with what words to say today. Nothing comes easily, in the face of a tragedy like this, except for questions and emptiness and pain and sorrow. Nothing seems fair or right.

You don’t know me—I’ve only just met most of you—but if you did know me, you’d know it’s rare for me to have no words to say. Today, as we stand here together, as we look beyond what we can see in the here and now, into the mysteries of God we know nothing about, as we stand clinging to a tiny beam of hope in the midst of a great darkness of pain and sorrow, I am silenced. I can’t tell you, “it will all be OK.” I can’t tell you, “everything happens for a reason.” I can’t tell you, “God needed those two precious babies.” I don’t believe any of that.

Here’s what I can tell you and what I do believe, though: that God does care, that God cries with us today, and that Jesus loves each one here more than we can understand. Sometimes, death makes it feel like God doesn’t care about us, and unexplained tragedy and hurt make it seem like Jesus can’t possibly love us, but I know the song is true—“yes, Jesus loves me…”—and he loves each of us gathered here.

There may not be a good explanation for what has happened. There is no easy way to get through it and to make the pain go away and see “the bright side,” once again. But I believe that God is here. And I believe that just as Jesus blessed the little children long ago, he still cares for each one. I believe in the promises that the psalm-writer believed—that God’s faithful love lasts forever.

In moments like this, it is not easy to believe. In moments like this, it is easier to ask questions and have hard feelings. And I understand that. And I promise you all, no matter what, God is with you in the midst of this. God will be with you when the pain is less and there are happier days. And Jesus’ love will be there for you, whenever you can say once again that you believe. God is patient. God waits for us and with us through our darkest times and welcomes us home when we are able to come back, even when we’ve been through loss like this and have lots of questions. God holds us when we are grieving. We are not alone, and we are not unloved. Take comfort in knowing this, and in remembering, “Yes, Jesus loves even me!”

And we believe that God has already welcomed these two precious children to him. And Jesus has loved them, too.

Empty Isn't Always Bad

I've read a lot of blog posts and comments recently. A lot of times, either the post itself or the comments that people post following it just make me sad, for lots of reasons. So, here's (a version of) my Easter sermon from yesterday, with no claim to all the answers about any particular topic, other than that Christ is risen. That's the best news, most worth blogging about, I think. Maybe this will bring someone some hope and joy. If not, then disregard it, I guess. It's worth a try, anyway...

"Empty Isn't Always Bad"
John 20:1-18

Mary waited as long as she could, after the Sabbath was over. She just needed to go to the tomb and see if there was anything to do, if there was any way it had all just been a dream. So she went--and it was still dark--and then, what was to be done? Nothing was as it should have been--the stone had been messed with and the body was gone! What could she do next?

So she runs to tell some other disciples, and the story gets a bit confusing then, with the disciples' foot race and all the talk about cloths--and what exactly, did the disciples believe, after they had seen the tomb? And then they went home? What?!

Some--well, lots!--of this story is so mysterious. Why couldn't John (or one of the other gospel writers) just tell us what really happened when Jesus was raised from the dead? Why can't we know all the details? How can we believe it's true? Could it be true? Does an empty tomb really mean something good?

No one saw the resurrection first-hand, and after all that had happened, we can probably understand why Mary stood there weeping, even after the two disciples had gone. "What have they done with him?" she wanted to know. And what was she to do now?

You see, Mary didn't realize that empty isn't always bad. To Mary--just like to most of us, if we'd be honest enough to admit it--God just did not seem big enough, after all that had gone on, to make an empty tomb have any redeeming value. Jesus was dead, and she just wanted to make sure everything was done right with the body. He was dead. That was the truth of the matter. And what what she going to do now--now that the tomb was empty?

You know the story--maybe you're tempted to shout to get her attention: "Mary! Mary--don't you see, it's him!! He's right there in front of you!!" But Mary will not see, not until her calls her name ("My sheep hear my voice," he had said.). She will not know that an empty tomb is not a bad thing, until she can be completely shaken out of her too-small, Good Friday-filled world, where Jesus is still dead.

How often do we live in that Good Friday world? That world, where death seemed to win and sin seemed to reign. That world, where all that seems ever before us is the horror of what happened then. The hymn writer said it so well: "O Sacred Head, now wounded / with grief and shame weighed down, / now scornfully surrounded / with thorns thine only crown; / how pale thou art with anguish, / with sore abuse and scorn! / How does that visage languish / which once was bright as morn!" That world, where darkness seemed to extinguish the light...and an empty tomb could only mean someone had taken a body away...

But not today! Not this day! Not in the middle of a garden, not at a borrowed tomb...Not today! Not in a hospital room, where it appears death has the final word--not in a brothel or a crack house or a jail cell, where darkness seems to be overcoming all--not in your heart and in my heart and in all the broken and ugly and dark places in our lives--death and sin and darkness don't win--not today!!

CHRIST IS RISEN!!

And Mary, in her grief, stuck in her Good Friday world, doesn't realize that empty isn't always bad, that her Lord stands right before her!! WHAT A STORY! Could it be true? Yes, it is!! CHRIST IS RISEN!! Weep no more! Look for tombs and stones and cloths and dead bodies no more! Go and tell! CHRIST IS RISEN!

He calls your name and my name--call us out of the mire of the sin that keeps us from hearing his voice, call us away from the despair and disillusionment that make us think God isn't big enough to do something miraculous, calls us to go and tell, like Mary did. Go and tell--Christ is alive--I have seen the Lord!!

Have you been tricked? Have you been led to believe that you have no story to tell, that you have no word to speak, that empty is bad and only full is good news? Not so! Go and tell! "I have seen the Lord." That's such a simple sermon to preach: "I have seen the Lord." Christ is risen!

Sure, we don't know all the details. We can't imagine what it felt like or what it looked like, when Christ was raised from the dead. Sometimes, we will still get distracted, even from such an amazing story as this one. But with Mary we can say, "I have seen the Lord."

Now, I know you're thinking, "But seriously, Pastor, you know I have never actually seen Jesus!" And I know--we have not stood in that garden, and we have not seen Jesus face-to-face like Mary did, as he called her name. We have not heard him call our names in the same way she did. I know.

But you have seen the Lord--or you wouldn't be here today! Where have you seen him? When have you seen him? How have you seen him?
...In the hug of a child?
...In the eyes of one in need of your help?
...In the love of a neighbor?
...In the touch of a parent or loved one?
...In the unexpected care of a stranger?
...In the forgiveness offered by a friend?
...In the witness or words of a fellow believer?
...In the bread and the wine?
...In the words of life that we read?

Yes, you have seen the Lord!

So, go and tell: "I have seen the Lord!" Christ is risen! An empty grave is there to prove our Savior lives! Alleluia! Glory to God! Amen.

"Let's Get Real"

Fresh off the presses.  It's a sermon, so if it reads a little weird for you, that's because it's not entirely meant as a blog post...

Ash Wednesday 2014

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Andy Griffith.  Perry Mason.  Arthur Fonzarelli.  Marsha Brady.  Cliff and Clair Huxtable.  D.J. Tanner.  Corey Matthews.  Though no one here may be terribly familiar with all of these people, I would imagine that there is one name I just listed that each of you here knows a lot about.  You might know about that individual’s life work, struggles, triumphs, like and dislikes—all sorts of things about that person.  And they all have one thing in common: they’re not real!

Isn’t that the way we live sometimes, though: knowing more about people who aren’t real than we know about the real people sitting right around us?  Usually, this is because we don’t let too many people know the “real” us, either.  It seems like we often put a great deal of energy into ignoring our true selves—when we hurt or break or ache—and we put on a happy face and tell people we’re “fine.”  Try this sometime: when someone asks how you are, don’t say you’re “fine” or even “good” or anything so meaningless.  Tell that person how you’re really doing and see how long he or she is willing to listen.  I admit that I don’t do that well at listening, myself—I have found myself at times thinking back through people I’ve talked with over the course of a day and trying to remember if they said they were “good” or “fine” or gave me some other clue to the “real” them that day.

But this is Ash Wednesday.  And we’re in the middle of a busy, busy week in the life of our church.  And if I were the betting type (which I’m not because I’m a United Methodist), I’d bet that some of you are longing to tell someone else here how the “real” you is feeling tonight.  Are you tired?  Are you aching?  Are you out of sorts with yourself or with someone else?  The prophet Joel tells the people of Judah—and us—be real before God.  When his people experience devastation due to a locust plague, Joel tells them, All of you—little babies to old folks, no matter how busy you are—gather before God and raise your voices in lament.  Let God really know how you feel.  Come together in this time of trial and be a community that cries out to God.  Let’s be real.  And who knows…God may just turn back and help us out.  When the people let God know their distress, Joel wants them to realize, then God will listen.  We may not think we need to tell God anything, if God knows all things, but as Joel points out, part of being in relationship with God is actually speaking up and saying how we really are doing, even to the God who created the whole universe.

We read from Joel on Ash Wednesday because Joel reminds us that no matter what our parents may have taught us about crying (and if I had a dollar for every time my mom said, “Crying never solved anything!”…) or how much we would rather not own up to our own suffering and our need for God, we have to do it—we have to be real, before God.  And Joel tells us to do that together.

Be real before God and be real with each other, Joel says.  And Jesus comes along much later and tells us a similar message.  When he teaches his disciples about being faithful, he tells them that they should put their energy into practices of the faith so that they can draw closer to God, not so that other people can see what they’re doing.  Jesus wants them to know that the practices of faithfulness are important—fasting, giving, praying—but not because anyone is keeping score.  These are the ways we learn to be more “real” with God, by letting God work in our lives through disciplines and spiritual practices.  Don’t do them in order to draw attention to yourselves because that is not their purpose, Jesus says.

Maybe it seems to you like what Joel is saying—for everyone to get together and cry out to God in the assembly—and what Jesus is saying—don’t do your fasting, giving, and praying in public so others can see it—sound like they conflict.  What they are really telling us, though, is that if we believe in the God who made all things and is able to make all things right, then we must practice coming before that same God just as we are, our real selves, even the parts of us we’re not proud of, the parts that feel broken and ugly.  Come before God and get real, both Jesus and Joel tell us, in very different situations—in everyday practices of the faith and in the midst of devastation and hardship.

And when we hear the call to “get real,” it doesn’t just mean that we finally are able to come to God and confess, repent, and ask for grace, but also that we learn to become more real with others.  Joel tells the people to cry together—don’t just sit in your own houses and mourn the ways we’ve all experienced loss through this locust plague.  Come together and weep as a community.  Be with one another in this misery.  Share with each other in the pain that we are experiencing, Joel tells them.  That’s what getting real means—knowing that we are all broken, and being in this, together.  There is an Irish proverb that says, “It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.”  Though we practice different disciplines or ways of growing closer to God during Lent, the call to self-examination and repentance comes to all of us, and we need the help of each other to “get real” this Lent.

The reason we do something different at Lent is not because it makes us better than people who don’t observe the season.  That’s exactly what Jesus was warning the people against!  No, during Lent we take time to offer ourselves to God in a new way, to let God work on us in different ways from the “norm,” so we can become more the people God is calling us to be.  It is a time of self-examination—we may find stuff we don’t like about ourselves, and that “stuff” may be exactly what God is working on changing at this time.  We need to take time to pray, fast, study scripture, give, and get into the disciplines of our faith, during Lent, if during no other time in the year.  We may give up bad habits (last year, I gave up bitterness for Lent—that was a lot tougher than giving up chocolate ever was!), and we may give up things that we eat or drink or otherwise take into our bodies that don’t make us the best we can be, or things that we say or do that don’t show love for God, ourselves, or our neighbors.  These are not easy things to do—and we will need God’s grace to work in us to follow through on the commitments we make to become more “real” through Lent.

So we come to church on Ash Wednesday to worship together.  We sit together, while we hear the call to observe a Holy Lent.  We covenant together to embark on this journey toward Easter—toward the celebration of our own redemption, our hope, once again. We are truly always on a journey, but during Lent, perhaps, we realize it more than at any other time of the year.  And it’s gonna take all of us to get through it, as we live in the shelter of each other and find strength through our community and in our God.

None of us will do a perfect job with our Lenten disciplines this year, most likely.  We may find ourselves complaining about whatever we’ve decided to do or not do.  We may completely forget about it, some day.  But we have come together tonight to commit to trying to be different people, at the end of these 40 days (plus Sundays), and it will take all of us together—and God—to make that happen.  When you receive ashes tonight, know that you are human and sinful, made from dust, as the ashes remind us—but also know that you are God’s—marked by God’s own sign, the cross of Christ.  And we are in this together, all of us who have that same mark from God, all of us called to be in community together.  Let’s get real through this Lenten journey, and let’s do it together, with God at our side the whole way.  Amen.