the Power of the Pack

There’s no such thing as other people’s children.

This simple, impossibly challenging phrase has been with me for a few weeks now. It’s from Glennon Doyle Melton, the spark behind Momastery, and one of my favorite gurus.

It’s been prickling my soul because on my less-redeemed days, I can roll my eyes, sigh in exasperation, and silently judge other people’s children whether their 2 or 22 or 82. 

Thinking of some as “other people’s children” gives me the imaginary distance to feel superior to them. It allows my compassion to wither on the vine. It reinforces the biological and cultural desire to care and provide for my blood kin first and foremost, even to the detriment of “other people’s children.”

That kind of thinking is what builds walls between neighbors, whether they are individuals or countries. We trade in vulnerability and connection for the illusion of safety, security, and superiority.

And we do it to our own detriment. Recently, I’ve been thinking about the amazing youth group I served at First UMC – Denton. There were a lot of things that made those kids special, but one of my favorite things was that they self-regulated. I didn’t have to exert control or correction from outside as an adult. Instead, there were such strong core values instilled in the group, that were taught and transferred even as some graduated and others middle schoolers joined, that the youth themselves kept their peers held to high standards. It wasn’t uncommon to hear a high school student say, “We don’t do that here.”

That was the power of the pack, to borrow a phrase from the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan. In his work, he would occaisionally find dogs that were so isolated, so anxious, so ungrounded in what it meant to be a dog living right here, right now, that he would take them back to his place for some pack therapy. He knew that there is no better cure for what ails us than the support, encouragement, mentoring, and accountability that comes from pack life.

What we fail to realize most of the time is that we humans are pack animals. I mean, look at us – we’re so soft and tasty. We’re not faster. We’re not stronger. We’re not bigger. Like a school of fish or a flock of birds, the original means of safety for us was life together. That and the really big brains and opposable thumbs.

But over time, we’ve forgotten the simple truth that we are hard-wired – physically and spiritually – for the power of the pack.

As a young mother, I imagine there must have been a time when women didn’t have to be taught how to give birth or breastfeed. I imagine that life together with other humans meant that you saw the life cycle firsthand and learned accordingly. Heck, you might have even helped with the process, truly living into life together.

I long for the life I imagine. To know and be known in community, where “iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens the wits of another…just as water reflects the face, so one human heart reflects another” (Proverbs 27:17, 19).

Of course, there is danger in pack life – ask anyone who has experience with the mindset of a mob or a gang. In every form, there is infinite possibility and danger, as we know from the smallest atom to the fathomless reaches of space.

But life rightly lived is life together.

This past week was Holy Week. For Good Friday, I prepared slides for worship that depicted different parts of the Passion narrative. And, I’ll confess, Lent went by in a blur this year and I wasn’t very prepared for the work. As image after image appeared in my search of the battered, bloody body of Christ, I felt the tears come.

But the one that hit me the hardest was when I imagined myself at the cross, because my creativity stood me in the place of Mary, Jesus’s mother. I felt an echo of the surge of grief and pain that must have been hers when she looked on her son, when she touched his crucified body. “Oh, my baby!”

Because being a parent, at least for me, means always thinking of my children as my babies. I’m sure I’ll do it even when they’re old and I’m ancient. But a part of me will always remember, will always be viscerally connected to their joy and pain, will always want to provide them the shelter and comfort of my own body.

I never thought I’d think of Jesus like that.

But suddenly, he wasn’t another person’s child – my compassion had been stretched to see him like his own mother did. It was heart-breaking in sorrowful and beautiful ways. In the next few moments, as I heard the news of those injured and murdered in terror attacks, I felt that same wave of compassion flood my system. Those are our children – somewhere there is a mother, a father, a whole pack, who mourns them. And beyond that, I thought of those whose desperation, whose isolation, whose warped sense of superiority and righteousness would lead them to do such things. Those, too, are our children. Oh, how my heart hurts for them.

I pray we all find our packs, our communities of redemption, including all the children whom God loves. Life is meant to be done together.

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. 

The Power of Holy Week

Over the season of Lent, the church I serve has been affirming the basic beliefs we share in common with all Christians as well as a few distinctive things that make us United Methodists. This Sunday we reaffirmed that we believe in salvation for sinners.

It’s no coincidence that this affirmation comes on Palm/Passion Sunday. We step back in time through the power of scripture to witness Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, riding humbly on a young donkey, as the crowds spread their cloaks and branches on his path, greeting him with glad shouts of “Hosanna!” This is the same crowd that will turn, with the guidance of their religious leaders, into the mob that lets the brutal criminal, Barrabas, go free while demanding that Jesus be crucified.

It’s always a difficult thing to embody this turn in one short worship service. The tradition of the church has given us a whole week to walk the final days to the cross together, which is called Holy Week. And we’ll have a couple of services to remember particular moments in Jesus’ last days, but we also recognize that life is evermore complex, busy, and fractured. While the medieval church may have had every confidence in attendance during Holy Week, the same just isn't true today.

So on Sunday, we went from greeting Jesus with triumphant shouts one moment, to lamenting our own betrayal of the Son of God in the next. It’s right for us to do this because to leap from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday is to miss the drama of salvation that occurs during Holy Week. It’s like climbing from one beautiful mountaintop view to an even higher one, without experiencing the depth and darkness of the valley between them.

God, in the person and work of Jesus Christ, addressed the problem of sin that is real and deep. In some liturgies, or words of worship, Jesus is called the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Growing up in a good-size city, I never had much opportunity to see lambs. But in the past few weeks, I’ve noticed something as I drive from my home to our church along McCart Street. There are sheep just east of the railroad tracks and it appears that many of the ewes have just had their lambs.

My son and I look forward to seeing them each day on our commute. They bounce on springy legs, finding joy in this new life. They explore the world, finding home and comfort near their mothers. But most of all, they strike me as so small, so fragile, so blameless and gentle. And this image, this vulnerable metaphor, is what our God – the creator of all life and savior of creation – choose to take on as God’s own way of being in Jesus.

I know God could have accomplished it another way. God could have behaved more like Samantha on Bewitched, twitching God’s nose and setting everything right again. But God didn't choose that way. God chose to continue to respect our free will, to come to walk alongside of us, to teach us and love us and ultimately die for us to show us that not even death can overcome God. If everything had been twitched into right-ness, I don’t know that we would have even noticed. Even as it is, many of us struggle to understand and appreciate just what God did for us. At least, I know I do.

I don’t look forward to Holy Week, but I know it’s good for me. Standing with the crowds, witnessing the sacrifice of my Savior, all with the knowledge of his resurrection in mind, makes me pause in awe and wonder.

Beyond Palm/Passion Sunday, we’ll remember the maundatum novum, or new commandment, at our Maundy Thursday service, reading the account of how Jesus, teacher and Lord, stooped so low as to wash his disciples’ feet. And on Good Friday at our service of darkness, we’ll watch as the light of the world grows dim as God incarnate consents to suffer and die.

We don’t have to pretend we don’t know the good news of the resurrection, but the light of Easter morning is so much brighter when we have waited in the darkness. I pray you find your way to the cross this week. 

Owning Our Stories

Recently at our church, we heard the story of a little-known Jewish rabbi meeting a Samaritan woman by a well. Hopefully, this story from the gospel of John is familiar, as Jesus demonstrates how God knows each of us intimately – to good, the bad, and everything else in between. And yet, even knowing all of our stories, God loves us anyway. It’s an extraordinary thing. No wonder the woman jumps up, forgetting her jar, which was the whole reason she had come to the well in the first place, and runs back to her town to share the news of the man who “told me everything I have ever done” (John 4:39).

In worship, we watched a spoken word poet interpret this story who repeated the phrase, “to be known is to be loved and to be loved is to be known.” It’s true for all of us. To take the time to know someone is an act of love. And to love someone truly and honestly takes getting to know them. So how do we recognize and own our stories?

We are unique among all of God’s creation in that human beings are story-making creatures. We use stories to make sense of the world around us and experiences in it. To tell a story is to impart meaning to an event or series of events.

Consider your own life story. If I were to ask you to tell me about yourself, you would pick and choose which things are most important, most clearly definitive about who you are – your hopes, your grounding, your values. You might tell me about where you were born or about your family of origin, since those first few years leave deep imprints on all of us. Or you might start with your work or family, considering your current relationships and commitments the most important part of the story.

Storytelling has been a feature of all cultures in all ages. Through the stories they tell, people connect, establish their identity as a group, and been entertained and taught. Through stories, we pass on the legacy of memories, values, traditions, and beliefs from generation to generation. The stories we tell shape who we are and who we become.

Stories are not just for children, as we retell the stories of Little Red Riding Hood or the Three Little Pigs. If we listen, most of our days are consumed with stories. We tell our friends or family members about our day, we cast plans for the future, we share news about loved ones. But now most of our stories come to us through television, movies, and other forms of media. And if we’re not grounded in our own story, in who we are and are striving to become, then we can easily “be conformed to this world” (Romans 12:2).

So, where do you tell your story? More importantly, what story is the bedrock of your life? Much of the Bible are the stories of God’s ongoing involvement in the lives of God’s people. When we retell these stories, our faith is strengthened. Over time, God’s story of love and redemption in Jesus Christ becomes our story.

Over the season of Lent, our church has been reaffirming its foundational beliefs, those core stories that shape us as Christians and as United Methodists. This Sunday, we’ll take a look at our belief in the guidance of Scripture. The Bible is much more than the flat type on the page. It’s a library, a collection of various literary styles written over time, to capture the story of God’s people. In our encounters with Scripture, we believe it’s possible to hear the voice, see the ways, and receive the guidance of our living God.

We often prefer to bend the text to suit our present limitations, to prove our point, rather than let the story of God’s love for creation speak to us and, ultimately, transform us. Rarely does the Bible cooperate with our search for quick, easy answers or clear, simple ideas of God. Instead we are drawn into the complexity of our mysterious God, where our assumptions are challenged and we are pushed out of our comfort zones. The good news is that a better story awaits. Glory be. 

A little help from my friends

When I was a latch-key kid, I would hurry home from the bus stop, call my mom to reassure her I had made it home, then turn on the TV. One of my favorite shows was about to come on, and I would just have time to feed our dog as the theme song played.

          “What would you do if I sang out tune?
          Would you stand up and walk out on me?
          Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song
          I will try not to sing out of key, yeah
          Oh, baby I get by with a little help from my friends
          By with a little help from my friends.”

I later learned it was Joe Cocker’s cover of a Beatles’ tune that opened every episode of The Wonder Years. I just remembered loving the story of an ordinary boy with an ordinary family. There were squabbles, friendship, first love, and everything in between. It was life, translated and broadcast in a way that was sometimes more honest than the stuff we get with all the “reality” shows we have now.

This was the song that came to mind this past week as I had a little “procedure” at the hospital, their code word for surgery, just like “minor discomfort” means pain. I had mentioned it to a few people in my church as well as my friends and family. Mostly for their prayer support since my mother was coming to town to take care of me. But what continued to astonish me was the response, “If there’s anything you need, just let us know.”

And they meant it. I could see the sincerity shining from each person who offered food, childcare, lawn care, or just a hand to hold, in addition to their prayers on my behalf. In our American culture, it’s easy to fall for the myth that we’re all supposed to be self-made men and women who pull ourselves up by our boot straps to earn everything we have. That’s just never the case. Yes, hard work can pay off, but there’s also a lot to be said for inherited opportunities such as married, educated parents who chose to have a child or the socioeconomic status of your family of origin. Those things are going to offer opportunities for one child that may not come easily for another.

None of us do life alone. That’s just not how we’re made. God created us for relationship – with God and with each another. The echoes of our American mindset can be seen in our faith when we emphasize the personal relationship with our God over the relationship between a believer and their community of faith. Yes, my relationship with God is important, but God is going to make God’s self known in my life through the hands and feet of my brothers and sisters in Christ. Our spiritual journeys are poorer when we go it alone.

“If there’s anything you need, just let us know.” It can be hard to take up the offers, to admit that we don’t have it all together and figured out, and that we need someone’s help. It can wound our pride. It can make us worry that others will think less of us. It can give us the opportunity to feel vulnerable when we’d rather pretend to have it all under control.

This past Sunday was the second Sunday in Lent and if you follow the lectionary, we had the opportunity to follow Nicodemus as he comes to Jesus under the cover of darkness to ask questions of this young rabbi. He gets confused and he misunderstands, but he has the audacity to admit that, even as a Pharisee and a leader of the Jews, he has questions. While he may not yet have faith in Jesus, he has faithful curiosity, which is a great start.

Which leads to one of the best, most often quoted scriptures in our Bible: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life” (John 3:16). It can be hard to hear a familiar verse say anything new, but consider this – God doesn’t ask you if you need anything. God doesn’t ask if you need to be loved. God doesn’t ask if you need to be saved. God loves you, loves everyone, whether you like it or not. And that’s good news.

Dark!

That is the exclamation I hear from my 2-year-old son when we walk through the laundry room. I try to observe lots of things to him, from the man walking to the trees along the road, so I’m sure I mentioned that it was dark as I carried him through this small room between our garage and the rest of the house at some point. It has 2 doors, one on either side, probably to muffle the noise of the laundry machines from the rest of the house, but the effect is a pretty inky darkness as you pass through one door, close it, before reaching for the other. Knowing my house like I do, I rarely flip the light switch, intuitively knowing where the next handle is.

The first time we passed through this darkness, I remember James held me a little tighter as he exclaimed, “Dark!” “I’m right here. I’ve got you,” I said. And like so many other times in this relationship, I glimpsed the heart of God in my small, mundane life. How many times have I cried out to God, “Dark!” And, if I am willing, I can feel the arms of God around me, even to the point of carrying me, as God whispers in my ear, “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

My husband, who is a musician, will often talk about people getting dark. Usually it’s a director who’s addressing the band. It was a piece of language I wasn’t familiar with the first time, so I pressed him to explain the first time he used it. For him and for the musicians he’s around, dark is when someone is being brutally honest, really telling you what the problem is – it’s critical but not personal. It’s sometimes necessary to get dark.

Well, brothers and sisters, it’s time to get dark in our faith. It’s the Thursday of Holy Week, the day when we remember Christ’s last Passover with his disciples, as he gathered with them around a table, fed them, washed their feet, while knowing the betrayal to come. It’s time for us to own our faults, the ways in which we betray God daily in our words or actions. Yet, even in the midst of these things, as I lament by failings, I know that, no matter how dark it may get, God is there.

Fortunately us, this liminal space is just that. It is a threshold between here and there, a “time to remember and move on” (This is a Day of New Beginnings, UMH #383). We don’t stand here in the in-between space any more than I stand for any length of time in the laundry room with my son. We experience the darkness, we know it for what it is whether it’s inside or outside, and we move forward to embrace the light. For nothing helps us savor the radiance of resurrection like the dark.

Word Power

I have a BA in English. I love language, words, stories. Honestly, my call to ordained ministry came out of the desire to share the greatest story I know with others. As a mother to a 2-year-old son, I'm finally putting that one semester of "Methods of Teaching English" to use. And remembering how ridiculously complicated and nonsensical my native tongue is.

My favorite new rediscovery with James is homonyms and homophones. Homonyms are words that are spelled the same, sound the same, but mean different things, i.e. "Mommy is putting the money in the bank" and "Look at those flowers on the river bank." Homophones are words that are spelled differently, but sound the same and mean different things, i.e. "Go through the door" and "James threw the ball!" (By the way, my favorite online helper to refresh me on all this grammar stuff, which was never my favorite, is Grammar Girl.)

His language skills are exploding. It's wonderful and scary at the same time. It makes me much more mindful of the things I say and, even more importantly, how I say them. Since we're four days into Lent, I guess it might be time to share the things I'm giving up/taking on for the season:

1. I will be more mindful about what I say so that fewer evil things come out of my mouth.
2. I will blog each day, with the hope that the intentional time of reflection will guide me deeper.
3. I will participate in the United Methodist Rethink Church photo-a-day thing.

I've talked before about how important I believe words to be. I don't think that it's unremarkable that Jesus is identified as the Word of God, through whom all things came into being as God spoke creation. The ancient people who passed along our sacred stories understood words to be a unit of power. Names were important because they were words intimately connected with our being (notice how often God goes around renaming folks...).

I've always liked this passage: "For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it." (Isaiah 55:10-11)

So, I want James to use his words well. As adorable as it is that he calls his yogurt "yay-yo" and he's fumbling his way through "hippopotamus," I want him to become a man who considers his words and doesn't fling them about lightly. And in this information age, where words populate cyberspace faster than breath, that will be a challenge. That's why this is part of my challenge to myself for Lent.

How about you? What are you giving up/taking on/feeling called to do this Lent?

Unity with Country, a Lenten Sermon

An introduction, then a sermon…

Our church has Wednesday evening communion services during Advent and Lent. You may recall that we just passed through Lent on our way to Easter. So, prior to that, I got a call from one of our lay leaders who was helping to organize the services, wondering if I would come preach and preside one evening. I checked my calendar and found I was only available on one Wednesday - March 28. She said that sounded great and we put it on our calendars.

Later, I talked with my pastor colleague who is the liaison for these services. She shared that the theme for the series was “Unity.” We’d be hearing about unity with our selves, unity with others, etc. I asked her what I had drawn by virtue of the day. My topic – Unity with Country. So here goes...

Scripture – Luke 20:20-26 (see also Matthew 22:15-22, Mark 12:13-17)

So they watched him (Jesus) and sent spies who pretended to be honest, in order to trap him by what he said, so as to hand him over to the jurisdiction and authority of the governor. So they asked him, "Teacher, we know that you are right in what you say and teach, and you show deference to no one, but teach the way of God in accordance with truth. Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?" But he perceived their craftiness and said to them, "Show me a denarius. Whose head and whose title does it bear?" They said, "The emperor's." He said to them, "Then give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's." And they were not able in the presence of the people to trap him by what he said; and being amazed by his answer, they became silent.

This is a really hard subject for me. How are you supposed to be united with something that is so divided? Now, especially, as 4 Republicans seek a presidential nomination and 1 Democrat seeks re-election, we get to witness just how divided we can become as Americans. How is it that our states hold together? How do California and Mississippi agree to co-exist under one set of laws? How does Texas find common ground with New York except that we share semi-common geography?

I will confess that I don’t enjoy election years. It’s just plain unpleasant. It’s tempting to duck my head down, ignore what’s happening in the stratosphere of politics, and just go about my everyday life. But I know that we have a unique challenge and calling as Americans who find their identity in Christ.

When I first felt called by God to serve in some way, it was through the ministry of a military chaplain. It was right after the war in Afghanistan started and I realized how far from God that could feel, far from friends and family, being asked to do the things you had done in training, but never imagined really doing.

I don’t know why I pursued this form of ministry, except that it was the open door that I could see. Having not seen many women in ministry in the local church, I had a hard time seeing myself as a pastor. So, I served 2 summers as a chaplain candidate, learning about the Air Force, its mission, and how to minister to airmen. It was a powerful experience to see the young men and women who had dedicated their lives to this way of life. And I also knew it wasn’t for me.

I chafed against so many rules. Now, I’m not naïve – I know why they’re there. They need folks to obey because in many circumstances it could be life-saving. But I have a hard time in such an authoritarian structure. I realized I really didn’t like being away from my family for long stretches of time. And I realized that I deeply missed the local church.

I feel like I have a great appreciation for the structure of our country, even with all its very human failings. Even without the butter bars of a second lieutenant on my shoulders, I have a certain amount of power based on nothing I’ve done but be born here. I am an American adult in 2012. That gives me access and voice that most people around the world will never know.

I had a conversation with a First Meal guest this past Sunday. His name is John. He is African-American and an actor who regularly appears at the theatre in town. He was expressing his dissatisfaction with the events surrounding the death of Trayvon Martin. Outside the justice issue at the heart of this, he said, “I get so tired of black people stopping at city hall.”

I heard what he was saying – he was tired of actions that gain media attention for a while, but ultimately do nothing. So I did something that I rarely do – I owned my white-ness. This is something we rarely talk about, but I will tell you now what I told him then – I know I’m white. And I know that that’s not right, but it’s the way it is in this time and place. So I vowed to him as I’ve vowed to God many times - to do whatever I can to work for justice.

When I was at Perkins School of Theology, one of the capstone projects of a seminary education there was writing your credo – your masterpiece of 30 pages or less that sums up your understanding of Christian doctrine. I recall that in my section on God, I focused on 2 attributes among the many available – omnipotent, eternal, omniscient, etc. etc. In my understanding of God, 2 attributes were most real to me – God’s love and God’s justice.

They really are just flipsides of the same thing. God loves us. God loves us all. And unlike human parents who may not be able to help but love one child a shade more or differently than another, God loves us all the same. Which is abounding, outpouring, and free.

But God is also just. God wants us all to have enough. And in our Scriptures we can see those times when God shakes things up for those who have hoarded away too much while denying those who have too little.

In our Scripture reading for today, Jesus neatly sidesteps a clever trap set for him by the religious authorities. He’s made his triumphant entry into Jerusalem and now the Pharisees, the Herodians, or the chief priests and scribes (depending on if you are reading Matthew, Mark, or Luke) are looking for a reason to take him down because he is a threat to their power.

So they’ve created a trap. These spies come with flattery that is actually true – Jesus is right in what he says and teaches. He shows deference to no one, but teaches the way of God in accordance with truth. Literally, the idiom here is that Jesus doesn’t “receive faces” – he makes no distinction between persons. God is loving and God is just.

As it says in Matthew 5 - "You have heard that it was said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, 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. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others?”

So Jesus offers them an answer that amazes them, silences them, and (according to Matthew), makes them leave him and go away. Jesus says, “Then give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's.”

I can’t help but love Jesus a little more at this point. You give the emperor what is the emperor’s and God what is God’s. It begs the question – and what is God’s?

It’s such a wonderful answer because it sidesteps the trap – if he had said you don’t pay taxes he would have been a popular revolutionary of the people and if he had said you do pay taxes, he could have lost his following and looked like a Roman lackey. Instead, he questions our priorities and true allegiances.

We have a unique challenge and calling as Americans who find their identity in Christ. We put on Christ in baptism. That’s why we only use our first and middle names in baptism – our family name becomes Christian.

And as members of the family, we are called to be loving and just. In following this calling, I refuse to be silent or ignore the things outside my ordinary sphere. I’ll pay taxes and serve on a jury and obey the laws, all the while working for change in the things that are not loving or just.

I pray God gives me the strength and courage to speak for the marginalized and oppressed when they are too scared or powerless to speak for themselves. And I pray fervently that there will be day when our country and all others experience God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven – even if it means giving away some of my power and privilege that I enjoy today. Because it’s loving and just.

That’s who we are called to be as God’s sons and daughters. Let us remember who we are and whose we are this Lent and always.