and then I saw the gun...

I live in Texas, but, as others were quick to tell me after I joyfully waltzed into the office with my brand new Texas driver license – it takes more than that to be a Texan. I’m not native and I know, that for however long we may call the Lone Star State home, there are things about it I will never understand.

One of those things is the relationship it seems that my state of residence has with guns. I struggle with it, and here is why:

When I was a teenager, I thought I’d get a job at the local water park for the summer. It seemed glamorous – all of those beautiful, tanned bodies up on lifeguard stands, like summer angels hovering over us mere mortals. I wanted it.

So I went to the local lifeguard class in the early spring, when getting into a bathing suit made no sense with the outdoor temperature, to learn the skills I would need. Now, I’m not a great swimmer. I had never learned real strokes before that day; I basically just moved around enough in the water to keep my head above the water and get where I wanted to go. And don’t ask me about going under water – even now I like to hold my nose rather than attempt the subtle coordination of blowing air out to prevent water from coming in.

But the allure of the lifeguard stand, and the admiration of hundreds of mere swimmers, drew me on.

So I learned the breaststroke and the sidestroke and how to properly kick. It was exhausting. And then came our big test – saving a swimmer struggling in the water. I watched my classmates go one by one – jump in the water, swim quickly to the person, loop your arm under one of their arms, swim with strong, sure strokes back to the side of the pool.

I had it. I knew what to do. I was 16 years old and completely confident in my skills and abilities.

And then it was my turn. My possible drowning victim was a large man; I don’t know how the pairing was determined. I swam to him quickly as he thrashed wildly in the water. I instructed him to be calm. I reassured him that I had him. I attempted to loop my arm under his and across his chest. And then something unexpected happened – in his assumed “panic,” he clung to me like I was a life preserver.

Which I was. But it also meant that he tangled up my arms and legs to the point that I couldn’t swim either. And we both started to go down. I coughed and struggled and tried to shout for him to calm down, but it was over.

I realized I was not a lifeguard. I never wanted to have that terrible responsibility of life or death for another person.

“How does that have anything to do with guns?” you might ask. Well, let me tell you this story then:

When I was in the Air Force Reserve, as a chaplain candidate, we learned about the Geneva Conventions, not that many of our current combat partners abide by these rules of civil warfare, if such a thing has ever existed. One of the provisions that we were taught, especially as chaplains-to-be, was that we were noncombatants, prohibited from bearing arms. This prohibition was meant to ensure us safe passage as representatives of the holy in the midst of horror, so that we could fulfill our commitment to minister to combatants.

To pick up a weapon was to forfeit the possible protection that the international community had established for us.

And I was completely comfortable with that. Now, I’ve never been deployed, sent to the front lines alongside those who bear arms. But, in that moment of training, I was much more content to let my life be possibly taken than to be the one with the horrible decision to make – whether or not to take the life of another.

Blame it on my theology.

God loves all people. We are unutterably precious to God. So much so that God – God’s own self – took on flesh and blood to teach us, show us, feed us, love us, and redeem us. 

Maybe this doesn’t seem as scandalous to us as it once did. After all, we’ve become numb to the Jesus on the cross we see in churches and around some folk’s necks. We can’t fathom the blasphemy it was to suggest that GOD – the all-powerful creator of all, who stands beyond the touch of time and space – would consent to die.

But God did experience death, if only to show us that death is nothing to fear, that even that great mystery is nothing compared with the mystery and majesty of God.

So, if God went to all the trouble for me and for you and for everyone – even the folks who are really nasty and horrible and make really bad choices – who am I to say when they should die?

And that’s what it would feel like to me if I owned a gun. I’m no hunter, although my father was. When he passed away, my uncle took great pains to make sure that all of the children could select a gun from his cabinet for their inheritance. I chose one after looking for my sister’s signals, then gave it to my brother-in-law, who is a hunter.

Since I don’t know guns, I would be a danger to my self and others if I tried to use one. And I honestly believe that trying to fire back in the case of many of these incidents of gun violence we’ve experienced in our country recently would only make matters worse. To tell the baseline truth for me, which I hope you realize doesn’t diminish your truth, I would be perfectly content to surrender all of my rights to own a gun – especially the potently lethal, semi-automatic kind – if we enforced that rule for everyone.

Of course “bad guys” would still want to find ways to have guns, but I would hope that there would be fewer options for them and, eventually, we would be able to limit their supply altogether.

Perhaps that’s naïve of me. I prefer to think it’s hopeful. And here’s why:

Recently I was driving to my church from my home to work a shift at our pumpkin patch. It was midday on a Saturday in October. I was at a light, behind another vehicle, when the light turned green. I waited for a 5-count, but, seeing no move from the other driver that they were planning to go, I gave them a short beep from my horn.

Now, I know horns don’t really have a lot of range of expression. One honk sounds much like another. But I didn’t lay on it. I really try not to be that person. And they went, but slooooowly.

I like to go at least the speed limit, so I changed lanes, from the right lane to the left lane, in order to pass them. I did, glancing over as I passed to see a middle aged woman with a wealth of dark, curling hair driving the slow Honda minivan. And she seemed to have a full load of kids, maybe that’s what was distracting her.

After I passed her, she sped up, passing me, and giving me a clear hand sign to show that she was angry with me. That’s fine. I’m a grown up. Hand signs don’t hurt my feelings so much as tell me something about the maturity of the giver.

After she passed me, I saw her reach down, then sit back up in her seat. One hand was on the wheel….

and then I saw the gun…

It was in her other hand. She slid her hand over the barrel – I would later learn this is called “racking the slide” – and then she put it on the dashboard of her car, just above her steering wheel, within easy reach. It was shiny silver – it caught the light as my mouth dropped in disbelief. 

How many times had my mom told me, “Don’t honk at people. They might have a gun.”

Sure enough. And now the van was slowing down for no reason I could see – no red light, no traffic – so I slowed down, too. No way I was going to get next to her and give her an easy shot. And I grabbed my phone, my hand trembling as I dialed 911.

We continued like that all the way down a main thoroughfare, which has a 40-45mph speed limit. She would speed up, I would speed up. She would slow down, I would slow down. I didn’t want to pass her or get next to her. I described the vehicle to the dispatcher. I told her everything about what I knew had happened.

Finally, the van turned into a gas station and I whizzed by, taking shelter in another parking lot a distance away, to wait for the officer as instructed. Another officer found her and spoke to her.

I was trembling as I waited, tears sneaking down my cheeks as the adrenaline wavered. When I saw the welcome sight of a Frisco police car, the feeling of relief was palpable. Finally! Someone who is trained to use a gun properly, who can protect me from the wild, at-large guns of other people. (I know it’s a function of my social location to feel this way about police officers and I lament that this is the case…)

He took my story, he taught me what to call the handling of the gun, he asked a million questions, prying out details I didn’t even know I had noticed. He went back to his car, while I put my head on my own steering wheel, trying to slow by breathing and soothe my nerves.

He came back and told me these things:

• The other driver had not committed any crime. It is legal in Texas to carry a gun in your vehicle, whether or not you have a concealed carry license, as long as the weapon is not visible. She was getting a stern talking to about putting her gun in a visible spot. 
• She had perceived me as a threat since I had honked at her.

I was flabbergasted. I guess if she had actually shot at me, that would have been one thing. But since she had just brandished her weapon, no harm done. She said it had slid out from under her seat, where it was concealed, so she had picked it up to keep it from getting under her pedals.

I’m a pastor. I’m trained to try to understand different perspectives. And I could understand hers. I don’t know how she felt threatened by me, but I can, of course, understand wanting to protect your children and your self.

But imagine the escalation that gun could have meant.

Instead of writing this, I could have been a blip on the evening news – “Local pastor killed in road rage shooting.” Or maybe not, I don’t know if just one person dying makes the news every time. Instead of continuing on to the pumpkin patch, my family could have been receiving a horrible phone call letting them know they were now widowed and motherless.

It scared me, folks. And made me even more set in my truth. There should be civil ways we can speak our truth to one another instead of reaching for a lethal weapon.

So pray for us here in Texas. Pray for those who feel threatened when the conversation turns to changing gun access and pray for those who have experienced gun violence. Pray for the misunderstandings and the underlying fear that poisons the possibility for understanding one another and moving toward the future together. I know it’s nuanced and messy and terribly hard, but I believe it’s worth it!

After all, God loves us all. We might should do the same.

all the things I can't give you: a letter to my children

Almost two months ago now, I started work in a very fancy area of Dallas. Each day I drive by all the schools that look so amazing, that would inspire and fascinate your growing minds. I look at them, at the lovely gardens outside, at the high walls that will keep us out because, despite the good and noble work that mommy and daddy do, we live on the southern edge of middle class.

I remind myself that this is silly, that there are lots of very good schools out there. After all, I went to public schools and I turned out ok. Of course, there were not so many standardized tests then and we didn't live in such a desperately competitive environment, but it'll turn out.

But then I get to thinking about all the things I can't give you.

I would give you the best of everything. I know it's unrealistic and dreadfully expensive, but the deep part of me that values you so highly wants only the best for you. Sturdy, stylish shoes that care for your arches and soft, protective clothes that feel good against your skin but keep you from boo-boo's. Organic, farm fresh, happy foods to nurture your body and engaging, brain-tickling teachers and schools to nurture your mind. Wonderful vacations seeing the world and time spent living into our family and friends, near and far. But I know I can't afford to give you all these things. Already I've had to explain to my big boy why we can't have the birthday party at the go-cart track or the amusement center. And I'm sorry.

If I can't give you the best of everything, then I would give you joy. A way of seeing the good in things and people that doesn't necessarily take money. Something transcendent beyond the regular happiness that I hope you feel regularly. Today I get to see my big boy dance to the music playing at the burger place, without thought that anyone may be looking or judging. Today I hear my baby giggle with delight when his tummy is tickled or when we crawl after him down the hallway. Today I hear my big boy work on humor by knock knock. Today I see the sun break through clouds in my baby's smile when he sees me. I would give you this wellspring always, but I know it's not possible. And I'm sorry.

If I can't give you joy, then I would give you safety. That no one in this great, wide world would hurt your body, your mind, or your spirit. That you could walk the streets or go see a movie or travel any where your curiosity desired without fear. But every news story I hear tells me that I can't give you this. Everywhere I turn, I see other mothers and fathers struggling and weeping and grieving because this life has hurt their baby. And I'm sorry.

If I can't give you safety, then I would give you resilience - the incredibly ability to re-form yourself in healthy ways after the forces out there have de-formed you. Your dad and I have reflected lately that we both seem to be resilient; we can bounce back from horrible things and keep moving forward. But as I look at my life, I realize that this strength is wrested from the hands of adversity. I can't just give this to you. And I'm sorry.

My dear ones, I feel so sad knowing all the things I can't give you. I know there are lots of things I do give you and others you'll simply have to find or earn for yourself, but out of my deep, boundless love, I want to give you so much!

But because of who I am and whose I am, I know I will give you this one thing if nothing else - I will introduce you to the God who loves you even more than I do. I know your walk with God will look different from mine. I know you may run in the other direction at times in your life. And I'm so sorry that some of your discipleship may fall under the judgmental eyes of the people in mommy's church(es) who may have very particular expectations of what a pastor's child should do or say or believe.

I can't give you faith, but I can make room for it in our life together and show you how I stumble through each day. I can give you space each night to pray for the Paw Patrol pups and Grandad and Grandmary and Bubi and everyone in your class.

Just the other night, my big boy struggled with the reality of death, wondering what it would mean to die, filled with the sadness of being separated from mommy and daddy and brother. So I gave you what I had - the reassurance that "to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier" (as Walt Whiman put it) because it means you get to go to God's house.

I'm not sure exactly what God's house looks like, but I know our brother, Jesus, went ahead to make a place for us there. And I'm sure that there's so much of every good thing there, because God provides what we truly ever need. God gives of God's self, pouring out love and grace and mercy for ever and ever.

So, sweet babies, while I'll still get caught up in the relentless pursuit of mine and more sometimes, because I'm only human, too, I'll do my best to keep introducing you to our great God. It's absolutely the best gift I can give you.

the magical, mystical art of holding space

Earlier this year, I had the privilege of beginning a journey through the Center for Courage and Renewal with many other young-ish United Methodists from around the country. I can’t explain what a gift this cohort has been, through both our retreat time together and our monthly peer learning circles. Especially since this season in my life has seen an unprecedented amount of change and transition. From large church associate pastor to medium church senior pastor now to small church associate pastor. From mother of one to bereaved parent to mother of two children this side of heaven. From wife of a doctoral student to, well, still a student but now ABD (all but dissertation)!

And through it all, I’ve come to know the magical, mystical art of holding space. At first glance, it seems like a contradiction in terms. After all, space is like nothing and how can you grip nothingness in your two hands?

But my experience with Courage and Renewal practices has taught me that space is like a wide-brimmed cup. If you are fortunate, others will hold the space open for you so you can pour yourself into it, so you can see yourself truly again, so you can once again know how God is gently holding you when it feels like you are lost in the great wide open of here.

And I should have know this. I am a believer in body wisdom – that our bodies can and do teach us the deeper realities of life – so I really should have understood more about holding space. After all, my mothering body has already shown me the wonder of holding space as new life comes into being within.

Holding space recognizes that redemption and transformation and real, honest to goodness growth, can’t be forced. As you embrace the art of it all, you know that the greatest gift you can give, to yourself or to someone else, is to simply hold the space open wide, without judgment, without diminishing their truth, without rushing to conclusions or easy answers.

In this season of my life, there are still a lot of questions and it’s easy to doubt myself. But I also know that if I practice the magical, mystical art of holding space, of resting with the tension, of leaning into the uncertainty, God will unfailingly show up in the space, too.

God’s heart holds space for us. It reminds me of that scripture – “Don’t be troubled. Trust in God. Trust also in me. My Father’s house has room to spare. If that weren’t the case, would I have told you that I’m going to prepare a place for you?” (John 14:1-2 CEB).

I don’t have to be afraid when I feel lost or when I feel a sense of nothing yawning vast around. I don’t have to be tempted to hustle for approval or conform to the expectations around me. God has room to spare, God has space for me and for you and for everyone. Space for breathing and becoming and being. Glory be! 

What comes first?

Have you ever been on a mission trip? I didn’t have the opportunity until I was an adult. I was a volunteer youth counselor, one of those adults who assisted the youth pastor and came alongside the youth during Bible study or camp or retreats or Sunday school. I was just out of college, but our cadre of counselors spanned age, gender, education level, ethnicity, etc. to better allow the youth to find someone with whom they could really connect.

So, I’m in my early 20’s, newly married and new to Texas, working as an administrative assistant when the youth pastor asked if I would be one of the adults on the summer senior high trip to Proyecto Abrigo. And it was such a life-changing experience that I was glad to use all my vacation time for the year on it.

Proyecto Abrigo builds cinder block homes for poor families in Tierra Nueva, Mexico, which is just outside Juarez. And by “home,” it’s more the size of what you and I would consider a small bedroom. But they were significant improvements over cardboard shacks, houses made from old shipping pallets, or living in an old school bus.

While we were there, the program director made sure we went to the restroom before we left the dormitories in the morning, since there was no place to go on the work site except for the community hole at the end of the block. While we worked under the diligent eyes of the maestros, local men who served as the foreman for each house, we were careful not to trip over the daisy-chained electrical cords that supplied what electricity there was from the central pole in town.

But one of the challenges I faced most consistently were the roads, or rather the lack of them. Tierra Nueva was being constructed on top of sand, which had been piled up over an old garbage dump. Yes, it was new earth, but the kind that was given to the poorest of the poor who were willing to stake a claim and build a house there.

Each morning, our mission group caravanned to the work site. I often drove one of the big, white vans. There were established ruts that ran through town after you left the paved road, but they were easy to confuse. And you always had to be on the look out for the odd bus that would come careening around a tight turn. But somehow, it all worked out.

I was reminded of this experience when a pair in the Krum church, a mother and son, went to serve for a week as a part of a medical mission in Haiti. Seeing the mother this past Sunday, which was the first time since she returned, although I have been moved to tears by her Facebook posts of pictures and reflections, I asked her how the trip was.

“It was amazing.” She talked about the children’s lives that had been changed because these medical professionals were willing to take time out of their own busy practices to give their skills and training away. She noted that while they probably all had distinctive and precise ways they operated at home, they were able to come together as a team, making do and making it work for the sake of the community they were serving.

And then she said something that has stuck with me that spoke to me at a deeper level; she said, “I think it’s because none of it was ‘mine’ there. It was all ‘ours’ whether it was the medical supplies or the roads. The driving was crazy, but there were no accidents because we were all in it together, trying to get from one place to another.”

Can you imagine it, brothers and sisters? A world where we’re not so stuck on what is “mine,” but instead we work together? We all succumb to the temptation at times to put “me and mine” first.

But Jesus said to his disciples, “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing…Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well” (Luke 12:22-23, 31).

When we seek the kingdom first, by serving others, whether they share our faith or not, everything else falls into place in our lives. May you find your God-given way to serve!

Exhaustion & New Life

Most days start out roughly the same – the alarm goes off for my husband, who has to get up and out before the rest of us, and I lay there, trying to get my internal gears running, while my body laments, “…but I’m still so tired.”

I know this is just a season – a season of parenthood for which we planned, prayed, and rejoiced. But just because something is a blessing, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t also very, very hard. And very tiring.

Perhaps you’re in your own hard season of life right now. Maybe there are more people demanding more from you than you know how to handle – the boss, the spouse, the parents, the children. You give and give and give until you feel like you just might give out under the tremendous pressure to be everyone’s everything with nothing left for yourself.

Or maybe it feels just the opposite is true – the house is empty except for the nattering from the television you keep on to keep you company. No one calls, no one writes, no one seems to remember that you are alive. One seemingly empty day blends into the other, with only a bit of sleep between to tell the difference. Life seems flat, dull, and so very tired.

This life is very, very hard sometimes. There’s brokenness everywhere we look, even within ourselves.

There are those out there who say that if you believe in Jesus, your life will not be so hard. You will be rewarded with prosperity, happiness, and good hair days if you say the right prayer to invite Jesus into your heart. They treat Jesus like a diet pill – you don’t have to change anything about your life to be a disciple. But that’s just not true.

God knows life is hard. God may not have intended it that way, since God created us for loving relationship with God’s self and plunked us down in a beautiful garden, where all we had to do was reach out our hands to eat sweet, perfect fruit until our appetites were content. But we were not content with that…

A clergy colleague of mine made the great point in one of his sermons that we all struggle with telling ourselves “No!” Maybe we’re very disciplined when it comes to exercise or we’re a model employee, but there’s usually at least one place in our lives where we struggle with our appetites. That’s where Adam and Eve got into trouble with the forbidden fruit and that’s the same place many of us find ourselves, too.

So where have your appetites led you? I confess that I have to work hard to rein in my physical appetite for food. It’s easy for me to eat well beyond the point of contentment because the taste or crunch or sweetness makes me feel happy. And I know many folks who struggle with things much harder and darker. Our appetites can rule over us if we are not careful, exhausting our own resources and drawing us away from God.

As we read in Isaiah, “All of you who are thirsty, come to the water! Whoever has no money, come, buy food and eat! Without money, at no cost, buy wine and milk! Why spend money for what isn’t food, and your earnings for what doesn’t satisfy? Listen carefully to me and eat what is good; enjoy the richest of feasts. Listen and come to me; listen, and you will live” (55:1-3).

God offers us water bubbling up within us such that we will never be thirsty and will have eternal life (John 4). God offers us a sumptuous feast for our endless hunger and we don’t have to pay a penny.

And read the Isaiah text closely – the new life God offers isn’t necessarily full of fancy clothes or new cars (i.e. “what doesn’t satisfy”). Instead, God asks us to listen, so that we may live. Listen to the Word of God, who came into creation to teach and to heal and to embody God’s love as Jesus Christ.

When we’re so very tired, when we’ve exhausted our own strength, it’s easy to succumb to our appetites, to make bad decisions, and to suppose that this is all that life is. But life is so much more. If you need some newness in your life, get yourself to worship this Easter Sunday! We’ll be worshiping the risen Savior at 11am and 5pm and there’s always room for you.

Consume vs. Invest

I struggle with being labeled a “consumer.” I understand our capitalist economy is driven by consuming – we have to desire and take in more and more and more to make the wheels of our vast engine continue to turn. We have to gobble up goods and services like our lives depend on it because, as the great recession of recent memory taught us, some people’s lives truly do depend on this conspicuous consumption.

This endless cycle of never-enough, must-have-more bothers me at a deep level. It reminds me of the Monty Python bit from The Meaning of Life, in which we see a very obese man, Mr. Creosote, food spilled down his chin and clothes, sitting in front of a table heaped with empty, dirty dishes. The waiter approaches to offer him “a wafer thin mint.” Initially, the eater refuses, he says he is stuffed! But the waiter insists, after all, it’s just a “tiny little thin one.”

Finally, the eater relents, and the waiter puts the mint in his mouth, then runs for cover as the dramatic music begins. The eater begins to swell beyond his already bloated proportions, overturning his table and sending dishes crashing to the floor. Finally, his stomach explodes, flinging the disgusting contents all over the restaurant. We see the eater still seated, his innards laid bare, as the other diners and staff run away, gagging. Nevertheless, the waiter still delivers him his bill – after all, consumption has its price beyond the one already paid! 

This image is what I see when I’m called a “consumer.” Someone never satisfied, always hungry, no matter how much I have already glutted my need for necessities. And, like the Monty Python bit, it is disgusting.

By the grace of God and by following some sound financial principles, my family was able to become debt-free in 2014. It has consolidated my determination not to get trapped in consumer culture! So what if our cars are a little older or our clothes are not the latest fashion? Our family is sheltered, clothed, fed, and, above all, loved – we are rich beyond measure. This new freedom has given me the opportunity to think about my money as a way to invest.

God’s economy is about investing over consuming. God pours into creation, investing God’s own endless energy into making, redeeming, and sustaining all that is. Nowhere do we see more clearly than in the cross of Christ. God, who needs nothing, who consumes nothing, invests everything for our sake.

Investing is like good gardening. The gardener puts in time, resources, and lots of energy to tending the soil, planting the seeds, pulling weeds, watering, and much more to ensure a good harvest. What is eaten is then the fruit of investment, not just mindless consumption.

Each time a child is baptized, a colleague of mine says, “Who you are is God’s gift to you. Who you become is your gift to God.” It’s a profound truth to be put so simply. God invests each of us with a variety of gifts. What we do with those gifts is our choice and our opportunity to honor God. This is one way to read the parable of the talents in Matthew 25.

When I hear people say that they don’t go to church because they aren’t “fed,” my first question is to ask what they have been doing to feed others. Coming to see a “show” and expecting to be “fed” without feeding others are hallmarks of a consumer. Good stewards will receive the talents God gives them and act! It may be singing or teaching or praying or giving financial resources – the form may vary, but the Giver is the same.

And where we invest matters. There are a lot of good helping agencies out there that I admire. But above all of these, I believe in the kingdom of God and the one of a kind mission that the church has in the world. So I put my money where my mouth is and we give to our church so that lives can continue to be transformed by the good news of God in Jesus Christ.

My hope for each of us is that we resist gorging ourselves such that others hunger or digging a hole to hide our gifts in and find a God-glorifying way to invest ourselves, pouring ourselves out for one another. It just may be that you are God’s handpicked gift for a broken, hurting corner of creation.

Losing my Voice for Lent

In the weeks leading up to Lent, which began on Ash Wednesday – February 18 this year – I heard lots of excited chatter in my church. The children and youth were asking each other, “What are you giving up for Lent?”

For young disciples, the disciplines that are meant to draw us closer to God during this holy season are often boiled down to these 7 simple words. And for most of them, like most Americans, and perhaps like most Christians in general, the discipline doesn't go too deep. We often choose things that we’ll miss – like chocolate – but that aren't central to our being. And the food fasts often serve as a sneaky “holy” way of dieting.

It’s not the best way to honor God. The tradition of laying something aside for Lent was intended to remove a habit in order to give ourselves time to pray, study scripture, and give the money we would usually spend on ourselves to those in greater need.

And these disciplines were definitely not meant to be ways to brag. That’s why I usually resist sharing my Lenten discipline except in hindsight. While I hold myself to the high ideals of the Christian life that all of us, but especially church leaders are called to, I am reluctant to toot my own horn too much. As we read in Matthew, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven” (6:1).

I will say I usually take something up rather than give something up. I’m terribly fond of eating regularly, so fasting has always been my least favorite discipline. But, ask me sometime, and I can tell you funny stories about the time I was in New Orleans on vacation on my fast day. Suffice to say those beignets from Café Du Monde don’t quite taste the same after they've sat on the kitchen counter overnight…

So, during Lent, I usually commit myself to more – more Bible study (not just sermon preparation!), more prayer (not just in worship!), more time with my God. But in this season of my life, more was just going to be an exercise in futility, so I prayed to find another way.

I found one. And because I believe that it’s something many folks struggle with, I want to share my experience so far because it’s been humbling and life-giving.

I gave up my voice for Lent - I gave up yelling. I vowed to God – “I will not yell at my children, unless someone is in immediate danger.”

You may wonder just how much I yell at my kids if this was what I felt compelled to give up. And the truth is, probably not as much as some folks and a lot more than some others. But I can tell you this – every time I yelled at my children, I felt how contrary it was to my great love for them. I could see how wrong it was for me, who has all of the power in the relationship, to verbally crush and castigate the fledgling life entrusted to my care. It was a way I resorted to overwhelming them to obey me instead of guiding and teaching them.

It’s been a tough discipline to maintain. And it’s been a great way to draw closer to my God, who rarely yells at me, but has embodied relentless, unconditional for me and for all. Repeatedly in our Scripture, we ask “who can stand?” if God were to come in all his glory and might. No one – none of us can stand before the tremendous majesty of the Lord.

So, like a gentle, patient parent, God comes to us with love. God’s voice, God’s word, who we name Jesus Christ, is life-giving, not soul-shrinking like the yelling I found in myself. Like Elijah, I realized that God was not in the great wind, the earthquake, or the fire, but in the sound of sheer silence (1 Kings 19:11-13).

Now, I’m not perfect. I can already count the times I've slipped in my discipline this Lent. But those have been opportunities to repent, apologize, and continue trying. My hope is that a discipline begun for Lent will become my holy habit as I grow in grace. I hope that you have found a life-giving, soul-stretching discipline this Lent. 

What's in a Day?

With the ice days this week, I've been given the gift of rearranged time. Not extra time, since all the work I miss while spending more time with my family will have to made up somewhere, but my days were definitely rearranged. Instead of heading into the office, hearing the busy, happy sounds of our Children’s Day Out, meeting with event planners and premarital couples, visiting the homebound and the hospitalized, and all the other moving parts of pastoral ministry, I've been at home.

And unlike some of my colleagues, who don’t have young children at home, my work has had to be put on hold for the most part. Even as a write this article, my 5-month-old son is asleep on my chest and I’m balancing the laptop on my legs while reaching around him to type. It’ll work for a while, until he wakes up, but my “productivity” is definitely down.

Instead, I've made painter’s tape spider webs with my 4-year-old and tossed cotton ball “flies” into it. I've taken naps with my baby. We painted toast and made cookies. It’s good stuff. The days slip easily by, with no one paying too much to the hours.

But there was one day, one 24-hour period, that changed the world. This year at the Krum Church, to observe the season of Lent, we are going to walk beside Jesus through the last 24 hours of his earthly life. Jesus is believed to have died at the age of 33.

And while the gospel writers devote most of their attention to the last 3 years of his life, each one devotes the most attention to the day he was crucified. The last 24 hours of Jesus’ life is the continuation of the love story between God and creation. God would take it upon God’s own self to lay down his life for our sake.

Beginning on Thursday evening after sunset, Jesus would eat the last supper with his disciples, pray in the garden of Gethsemane, be betrayed and deserted by his friends, be convicted of blasphemy by the religious authorities, be tried and sentenced for rebellion by Pontius Pilate, be tortured by Roman soldiers, and experience crucifixion, death, and burial.

When the apostle Paul summarized the gospel for the Christian community in Corinth, he said, “I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” The suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus represent the heart of the gospel and the completion of God’s saving work.

This past Sunday, we started with the Last Supper. If you missed it, you can head over to our Facebook page (Krum First United Methodist Church) to watch a video. Through that meal, Jesus transformed the Passover Seder, the reminder of the Exodus and God’s central saving act for the Jews, into our Holy Communion, the reminder of Christ’s sacrifice and God’s central saving act for us.

This meal is how we remember the story of who we are and whose we are. And, if we let it, it can reshape our lives. Just as the Passover Seder moves those at the table from slavery to freedom, our Communion can move us from slavery under sin and death to freedom in Jesus Christ.

We all have stories that define us. Words spoken over us or about us come to become the voice within us, defining not only our past, but predicting our future. But instead of the hurts, injuries or insults we may cling to, God invites us to let Communion define who we are. Through it we remember that someone saved us. We remember that God, walking in human flesh, suffered and died for us to be free.

In breaking bread with his disciples, Jesus taught them one last time. He showed them his love. He gave them a meal by which they would remember him for the rest of their lives. And from that time on, every time Jesus’ disciples have shared this meal, it binds us together and reminds us that he is never far away.

This Sunday, we’ll continue on to the garden of Gethsemane. There the betrayal that Jesus had predicted over his last meal will come to past and his closest friends will desert him. It’s a dark day to keep pace with our Lord. But, if we let it, the gospel will continue to transform our lives. 

Rationing our Compassion

Around a week ago, a local news story popped up on my Facebook feed. A young woman had a car accident and died. Her baby, just 8 weeks old, survived with non-life-threatening injuries in the backseat. 

That’s the way the story read. I skimmed the details, brimming with tears, and filed it away as another tragic thing in a broken world. Then I got the text from one of the CDO directors at the church I serve – Did you see the story? Did you know that these are our people? The baby had just started in our program.

Oh no. My heart sunk further. I went back and read the story more carefully. Then I did the dumbest thing – I read the comments.

“I heard she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.” That may be true, but I can tell you this – I have done a million dumb things while driving. I’ve reached into the backseat to retrieve a pacifier and attempt to shove it back in the mouth that’s crying. I’ve fumbled for my phone as it rang in the depths of my bag. I’ve reached down to try to grab something on the floor. I’ve even unbuckled myself from the front passenger seat, shimmied between the gap, and wedged myself between my children to try to fix something back there. The difference is this – none of my choices have been fatal. Yet. 

As I digested all the ugly things that people are willing to say when they have the distance of a computer screen, it boiled down to this: It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what happened, why it happened, or whose fault it is. The truth is this – there’s a family hurting and they need our compassion and love. They deserve a humane response to a human tragedy.

I know our boats are swamped with tragedy these days – from Michael Brown to Eric Garner to the Jordanian pilot burned alive to the three young Muslim people killed by a neighbor in North Carolina. And, quite honestly, I don’t care who is right or wrong after the incident. The truth is this – there’s a family hurting and they need our compassion and love. They deserve a humane response to a human tragedy.

What do we save ourselves when we ration our compassion? We try to justify not responding with love and grace by saying that something the person did or said or was earned them this horror. Rather than saving ourselves heartache, we diminish our humanity. We refuse to see the other person as our brother or sister, and we find ways to attach blame to the one who was hurt.

And here’s the catch for me because, as much as it hurts, I can let my heart break a million times for the victims or survivors of tragedy. It’s much harder to let my heart break for those who enact the violence and create the horror.

A colleague of mine is inviting members of his church to adopt a terrorist this Lent. They will pray for that person, not in some vague way, but specifically. They will read all they can about this particular individual, look at their picture, and pray to God on their behalf. Not combat prayers, which I've experienced myself – those prayers that people pray only so you’ll come over to their way of thinking. No, these prayers offered on behalf of those who have found no other way to live life in the world than by inflicting fear on others will be for God’s mercy, grace, and healing.

It’s an incredibly bold proposition. I don’t know if I’d be able to do it. Would you? And yet I know it’s precisely this life of unlimited compassion, of love freely poured out, that God calls us to live. As Jesus taught, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:44-45). 

It’s not for us to decide who deserves compassion. After all, I know I can be pretty unlovable at times and make some bad choices. And yes, we also need to work on our wisdom and justice, but if we start with our love, flexing the strength of our compassion, the other things might fall into place. Perhaps when we practice giving our love away, we’ll find we have more of it. 

Angels and Mothers-in-Law

This past week at the Krum Church, we dove into Mark’s gospel to hear about our kingdom work. We’re in the middle of a series, moving from water to glory.

A few weeks ago, we talked about our baptisms as we remembered Jesus’ baptism. In baptism, we are adopted by God and put on a new family name – Christian. And when we become a part of the family, it’s time to take on the family business.

Last week, our reading started at Mark 1:21, but already in this gospel we've met John the Baptist, witnessed Jesus' baptism and the voice from heaven, seen God's Spirit driving Jesus into the wilderness to encounter and resist Satan, then Jesus’ return to announce the presence of the kingdom of God and calls hearers to repentance before calling Simon, Andrew, James and John to fish for people. Mark’s gospel is a fast-paced adventure story, characterized by phrases like “just then,” “immediately” and “at once.”

The text we studied focused on Jesus’ teaching in a synagogue and exorcism of an unclean spirit – both offering windows into his authority.

Authority – now there’s a concept I often struggle with. Usually authority means someone’s authority over me and the necessity of my obedience and submission. Not my favorites. But as I've struggled with these ideas in the course of my discipleship, a hymn came to my aid – “As the Deer,” whose opening lyrics are based on Psalm 42.

As the deer longs for the water, / so my soul longs after you. / You alone are my heart's desire / and I long to worship you. (Refrain) You alone are my strength, my shield / To you alone will my spirit yield. / You alone are my heart’s desire / and I long to worship you 

Hearing this song, sung by a youth choir many years ago, was like a key in the lock for me when it comes to authority. To GOD alone will my spirit yield. It was entirely freeing. I don’t have to bow down to worldly powers or consent to abuse by a partner. I don’t have to be satisfied with making 70 cents on the dollar or concede my unique gifts because of any classification under the sun. I don’t have to be content with the world and its exercise of authority.

I yield to God. That’s what I’m called to as a Christian in the world. It means I might be going against the grain sometimes. Really, if I’m not swimming upstream in this broken, hurting world, I’m failing to follow my savior.

I don’t have to worry about God abusing God’s authority over me the way I might worry about worldly powers. While corporations, countries, and citizens destroy the earth and degrade the image of God in each person, God is all about the liberation and redemption business. I can give myself wholly over to God’s authority, because God loves each of us so much, myself included, that God gives love and sacrifices God’s own self.

In a worldly sense, Jesus didn't have any power. He wasn't a king with political or military power. He wasn't a priest, who had the power in Roman Judea. He wasn't even a scribe with the authority of Jewish tradition. The only authority he had was the supreme confidence that what he did and said was God's will and God's truth. He lived into God’s kingdom, bringing a glimpse of life as it will be.

In a world plagued by powers that try to enslave us, Jesus breaks through. We are rescued from evil, injustice, and oppression by the authority of the crucified and risen Christ. When we put ourselves under the Lordship of Jesus Christ, we become agents who break the bonds that enslave our brothers and sisters.

So what does that have to do with angels and mothers-in-law? I’m sure not all of you are blessed with a wonderful mother-in-law like mine. I've heard enough grumbling and joking to know that.

But this Sunday we’ll take another look at Mark’s gospel, picking up in chapter one where we left off last week. Immediately after he rebukes an unclean spirit in the synagogue, Jesus goes to Simon Peter’s house, where his mother-in-law is in bed with a fever. Jesus heals her and she responds in one of the biggest surprises in the whole gospel.

Water-washed & Spirit-born

A couple of Sundays ago at the Krum Church we did two fun things: 1) we celebrated Epiphany (when the 3 wise men, kings, or magi – whatever you want to call them – came to worship the Christ child) and 2) we started our new Sunday schedule with two worship services (11am and 5pm). I came home Sunday night intoxicated on a blend of joy, Holy Spirit, and exhaustion. It was magnificent.

Last week was no less exciting as we launched into our new series – “from Water to Glory.” As a liturgical, connectional church, we keep the Christian calendar. This means that last Sunday was the time we were called to remember the Baptism of the Lord. Jesus, who knew no sin, came to be baptized by his cousin, John, in the river Jordan. And in that moment, as he came up from the water, the Spirit appeared like a dove and the voice of God spoke, "You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased" (Mark 1:11). 

In the sacrament of baptism, we are born anew by water and the Spirit (John 3:5). We are water-washed and Spirit-born, brought into a special covenant as God’s grace is poured out upon us.

As United Methodists, we understand God to be the one who acts in baptism. Yes, we show up, we profess our faith, we present our child, but ultimately baptism is something God does with, for, and to us. As such, we don’t baptize someone more than once, although we do take opportunities, like this Sunday, to remember our baptism and be thankful.

Because I believe that God speaks over each of us in our baptism and beyond, “You are my child, my beloved; with you I am well-pleased.” Of course we feel inadequate, we may try to quibble and say that those words only apply to Jesus. Most of those protests come from the place of shame, because we don’t feel like we deserve for God to feel that way about us. After all, unlike Jesus, we’re not perfect!

But hear this good news, brothers and sisters – God loves you and there’s nothing you can do about it. Whether or not you are ever baptized, God is just crazy about you, so much so that God will keep calling you and calling you and calling you, like a suitor who won’t take a hint. God wants a relationship with you!

Not because you did anything to deserve it. None of us deserve it. But simply because God made you for God’s self. You are God’s beloved child and God wants to be in your life like any good parent does.

As much as I get frustrated, tired, and otherwise less than good in my parenting relationship, it’s been a place of unsurpassed divine revelation for me. When I look at my boys, when I hold them in my arms, when I observe their wit, their curiosity, their humor – my heart swells with love. And if my little old heart, puny and human, can feel this depth of love, I can’t even begin to imagine what God feels for each of us. God’s love is an ocean compared to my water drop.

We make a covenant in our baptism and when we accept God’s grace that we will grow by faith toward perfection in love. Make sure you heard that correctly – perfection in love, not the world’s standards of perfection which are all warped and tangled up with fame, wealth, success, etc. God in Jesus Christ doesn’t promise those things. Being a follower of the crucified and risen One doesn’t come with a lot of guarantees of worldly comfort.

But being perfected in love is a different story. It means letting your heart grow, letting your love swell to encompass not just your family, your friends, your tribe. If you let God really get ahold of you, you find yourself loving strangers, enemies, those the world finds unlovely and unlovable. It’s an uncomfortable spot, because when you love others, really love them despite everything else about them save that they are God’s own child, you can’t treat them the same way anymore.

That’s the ground we’ll cover at the Krum Church these next few weeks. How do we grow from the waters of baptism to the glory of resurrection? We’ll look to the pioneer and perfecter of our faith as the trailblazer for our own journeys. May we have the grace to let God work in us!