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.

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! 

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.

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. 

Just a Day in the Life

I always know I find it intriguing when other folks share an average day. In my line of work, there really is no such thing as average, but I started this note yesterday morning, having no idea what lay ahead. So, here it is, just a day in the life:

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

6:30am – Andy's alarm goes off, roll over, go back to sleep
7:00am – my alarm goes off, reach across the bed to turn it off, and head to the bathroom for a quick shower
7:15am – out of the shower, head to the living room to see James, my 3-year-old son, is already up and sitting with daddy on the couch
7:30am – juice and Alphabits for James, bowl of cereal for mommy, kiss daddy good-bye
8:00am – dressed, made up
8:20am – pack up James’ lunch, remembering he needs wipes for school so I pack those, too
8:35am – pause Caillou so James can brush his teeth, then back to the couch to put on shoes
8:43am – out the door, only running a few minutes late…

9:02am – arrive at the church, put James’s jacket on for the walk in, grab my cup of tea, my work bag, and his backpack and make our way to Children’s Day Out
9:10am – make it to the church office, answer a question from our lead pastor, then head to my office to put my bag down and check some e-mail
9:20am – remember that I’m almost out of contact lenses, so call my eye doctor’s office to order more
9:30am – extended staff meeting, share the exciting things going on in my ministry areas (successful Alternative Gifts Fair, Advent devotional coming out soon with companion photo-a-day challenge that I’ve created, Advent vesper services, etc.).
10:55am – after staff meeting, touch base with a couple of staff members about some pastoral care concerns – a young woman who recently lost her baby and who I might be able to help and a young man who is homeless and in a medical crisis
11:10am – get the message from our receptionist that a representative from a Methodist helping agency has stopped by to see me
11:12am – work with a member who has dropped off their Salvation Army angel gifts, to make sure they are “checked in” although I don’t have the registration sheets…
11:15am – talk with a woman who attempted suicide last week, work to ensure her personal safety, offer referrals, pray with her, and get her where she needs to go today
11:35am – talk with our office staff regarding our big Evening in Bethlehem event coming up in a couple of weeks, promise to e-mail other staff and volunteers to coordinate details
11:40am – talk with a church member about seeing if one of our First Meal guests would be a good possibility as a house-father/mentor for young men getting out of prison
11:45am – work on my e-mails!

12:05pm – get a call from the Conference office
12:20pm – heat up my can of soup for lunch, find some chocolate cake in the fridge and cut myself a slice – take my lunch to eat with a few staff members in the main office
12:55pm – clean up from lunch, grab my things for the next meeting…
1pm – meet with our clergy, music director, and worship assistant for worship planning! We get all the way through Christmas Eve (very impressive…)
2:15pm – put my resources down in my office, then go check my mail. There’s a check for the conference clergywomen’s lunch for which I’m receiving reservations.
2:20pm – touch base with our director of communications & marketing to go over the Christmas offering brochure. Make a couple of edits. Brainstorm some ideas.
2:40pm – drop off a video to our lead pastor for his upcoming sermon series
2:45pm – get the request to write the weekly message from the pastor since I’ll be preaching this Sunday. I’m excited about preaching, but have yet to find time to write the sermon down, so this should be interesting…and I remember I’m leading Bible study tomorrow at noon on this text, so it may also be helpful
2:50pm – finally sit down at my desk again – need to finish some e-mails and follow through on some promises!
4:55pm – pack up my things and head down the hall to pick up my boy!

5:10pm – pulling out of the parking lot, singing silly songs, and heading home
5:25pm – arrive home, we watch the men across the street put up lights while we check the mail. Then we go inside and I try to figure out what’s for dinner – baked ravioli (nothing needed to thaw, easy, but takes a while to bake)
5:45pm – Andy gets home, James is chowing on some leftover macaroni and cheese since dinner is still a little ways off
6:20pm – Dinner time! James rejects the ravioli, so he gets to have as many cheerios as he would like. Argh, it’s so frustrating when he won’t eat what I cook!
6:25pm – a good friend calls. I talk with her for a moment while Andy oversees dinner eating.
7:00pm – out the door to run some errands
7:55pm – Home again, time for a quick bath for James since he also would like to watch “a little bit of Caillou” before bed
8:20pm – Little boy bathed, drinking milk, and in his pajamas. Do a quick run around the house to make sure all his friends and blankets are on his bed, nightlight and monitor on, etc.
8:30pm – James picks “My Many-Colored Days” by Dr. Seuss for his bedtime story
8:35pm – James goes to give daddy a hug and a kiss, then we go to his bedroom for prayers, night-night song, patting, and eventually, mommy leaving his room to do some chores!
8:45pm – start the dishes
9:05pm – done with the dishes, in my jammies, ready for some grown-up TV time with Andy.
10:00pm – Conan!
11:00pm – head to bed and get ready for another busy day!

Remember you are dust...

Years ago, when I worked as an admin at a church, one of the other admins talked about “baby preachers” that came through the system. At that time, the senior pastor of her church was the chair of the Board of Ordained Ministry, so she kept all their files in her office. From her, it was a term of endearment.

Now I am one of those baby preachers. I’m often aware of all the things I don’t know, despite a Master of Divinity hanging on my wall. And I’m often struck powerfully, painfully, truly by the grace that I sometimes talk so much about that it becomes subject rather than reality.

I’ve been appointed to my church for 3½ years now. I’ve gotten to know so many of the people deeply. Their faces are dear to me and I know their stories. In teaching an older adult Sunday school class recently, I was able to step out onto political limbs for the sake of the gospel because I was entirely confident that I love them, and they know it, and they love me back. It’s an amazing place from which to do ministry.

So tonight, on Ash Wednesday, which has never been my favorite day of the liturgical year, I choked up…again. I didn’t remember it from last year, but as I looked into all of these dear faces, young and old, dipping my thumb into the bowl of ashes to trace there the symbol of death which has become a promise of life for us, I found my voice breaking. I see an upturned face, an expectant waiting. I approach. I press my thumb into the black grit. I trace a broad down stroke, with the words, “Remember you are dust…” And as I seal the sign across their brow, “…and to dust you shall return.”

Ah me! Across the wrinkles, I wrote it. Across the smooth skin of children, where time has left no sign yet, I wrote it. Across the foreheads of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, wives, husbands, grandparents, grandchildren, I wrote it. I wrote the fatal/immortal sign and felt the anticipated pain of losing them to this mortal sight.

To me, the reminder of our mortality is unwelcome. I don’t like being dust! I’m so much more, as I preached one Ash Wednesday a few years back. Death and the fear of death hang around all of us, why must our faith remind us of it, too? Just look at the pop culture, where men and women spend small fortunes to remain forever young. We all fear the march of time that robs us of vigor and spirits our loved ones away.

And yet, I know the hope in this day is that death does not have final say. Even as we enter Lent, even as we remember that we are but dust that our Eternal Creator crafted in the palm of an almighty hand, we know we are precious creatures who find their eternal home in God.

As William Wordsworth puts it in his Ode: Intimations of  Immortality,

            “The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

                        Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                        And cometh from afar:

                        Not in entire forgetfulness,

                        And not in utter nakedness,

            But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                        From God, who is our home:

                        Heaven lies about us in our infancy!”

This is my "who am I?" for the #rethinkchurch
photo-a-day project for Lent.
Follow me to see more: @UMeldergirl

So while I may not like Ash Wednesday, I do my best to wrestle with it and find its blessing, as Jacob taught. And I pray that I never become so hardened or practical or accustomed to grace that these moments fail to move me toward tears.

 

But when I got home, just before my 2½ year old’s bedtime, grace continued to abound. He saw me, pointed to my forehead, and laughed. Mommy had a dirty forehead. Oh yes, child, and how much dirtier am I within. But there is good news for me and for you and for all us dirty folks.

What are your thoughts on Ash Wednesday? I’d love to hear your take.

Be Where You Are

I noticed it first at the Olympic Games in a way I’d never noticed it before. I was sprawling on my couch with my husband, watching the parade of nations. We had DVR’ed the opening ceremonies so we could really watch them in that sweet time after the chores but before bedtime. I’ve liked this part since I was a kid. I can still hear my mom saying, “We’re watching the Olympics because they only happen every four years!”

So I grew up watching hours of sports we never knew were sports, admiring the dedication athletes put into their chosen field, cheering for our country, and hoping against hope that this gathering might truly work toward an expanded sense of what we all have in common in the face of all that divides us.

And the parade of nations is just fun. You see styles of dress from all over the globe as the athletes beam with hope and expectation. But then I noticed something else, something I see all the time…

...they were on their cell phones. Oh, blessed technology that is such a curse! I wondered how any of these athletes could truly be where they were, in that moment in time, walking in as representatives of their nation, while simultaneously trying to record it.

There are so many amazing moments in the time I spend with my son. And many times, I’ve been grateful for my smart phone’s ability to snap pictures and shoot video. But I’ve also noticed how, as he grows older, he tries to look around the phone at me.

The very act of trying to capture a moment takes me out of the moment. I become the photographer-director, trying to get the perfect shot, instead of being mommy. And if these pictures are for our family, regardless of how much I enjoy the likes on Facebook and Instagram, maybe I can just trust our memories and leave the phone in my pocket more often.

The way my son does many things jars me out of preoccupation and back into my life. Like the way he eats. My son has not learned the habit of scarfing down his food yet. I don’t know where I learned it, to be honest. I just realized recently that I don’t really taste much of it most of the time because I’m already thinking about what I need to do, what comes next. I’m so busy preparing for the next thing, I’ve missed the thing right in front of me.

On the other hand, James eats like a connoisseur. It can be cold green peas, factory-shaped meat sticks, yogurt, or something we've actually cooked, but he’ll take a bite, stop, look at me and make this heart-felt yummy noise. "Mmmm!" As if to say, “Mom, this is so good! I am enjoying this!” And I look down at my plate, which is usually empty already, and wonder if I pause to savor, not just my food, but my life.

So I’m trying to slow down and be a little more intentional. I’m trying to be where I am, not anywhere else. I’m trying to remember what I did before my smart phone was an instant gateway to things that are interesting, but not always good or helpful or healthy. And I challenge you to do the same.

As Ferris Bueller said, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in  a while, you could miss it."

Take Our Lives and Let Them Be...

Two Sundays ago, on October 9, we had our drivers license covenant service to lift up and celebrate those youth who had gotten their license in the past year. This service grew up out of tragedy. Years ago, two young men in our church were involved in a very bad car accident and lost their lives. Since that time, we have conducted this service to celebrate a milestone but also to make clear the responsibility of joining the community of drivers.

Since July, I’ve been starting my third year in this pastorate. The first year, all young pastors are admonished to change nothing, so the service flowed as it had been designed in previous years. Then last year, I was out on maternity leave during the fall. But this year, with ordination around my shoulders, an intern on my staff, and a passion to do more and better, we revamped this service.

The first thing was to set the table. With the help of a congregant who owns a local salvage yard, I was able to get a tire, a steering column, and a dash from various cars. Then I put the cross in the center (where it should always be, right?) and three candles in front representing our triune God. I borrowed the licenses of all the adults present and placed them around the altar. A small bowl with the items our new drivers would be receiving – an ichthus keychain and a “dnt txt n drv” thumb ring – was put on top of the tire. One of our offering plates was placed front and center for use during the service.

Following a prayer for admission to the community of drivers, these newly licensed folks came and put their licenses in the offering plate. Then a youth read this scripture:

⁴ Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. ⁵ Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. ⁶ Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. ⁷ And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. ⁸ Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. ⁹ Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you. – Philippians 4:4-9

Then I gave a message which sounded something like this: This could easily be a time of admonishment – don’t speed, don’t be distracted while driving, etc. etc. But that’s what you’ve probably been hearing from everyone else. So tonight, I invite us to rejoice! You were one thing and now you are another and in the church, we rejoice when that happens. We see it in baptism – you were outside the church and now you have been washed and united to the Body of Christ. We see it in baptism – you were two separate people and now you have been united together. We see it in a funeral – you were here among us where we could see you and now you have gone on to glory in God. So, tonight, we have come to another one of those points – you were one thing, and now you’re another.

You are a driver. You are the wielder/director of massively engineered pieces of metal. Your status has changed to be a blessing to the community. Now you can be the one who asks another, “Do you need a ride to church?” Or maybe later in your life, “Let me drive you home.” You have the capability to move people and things from one place to another with speed and care. It’s amazing.

I never thought much about my own driving until I became a seminary student and put the sticker on my rear windshield “SMU: Perkins School of Theology.” I was so proud, so excited to be a seminary student. But then I realized that everyone knew exactly who I was, and whose I was, every time I drove. The person I pulled in front of, the person I sped past, the person I gave a dirty look – they all knew I wasn’t living up to who I said I was and who had claimed my life.

You’ve put your drivers licenses in the offering plate because you are offering that part of your life to God. No part of your life is out of God’s sight or reach or care. So, with that in mind, I would simply lift up a piece of our scripture reading – “Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen, and the God of peace will be with you.”

I invited them to stand before the altar, to receive back their licenses, and to receive the keychains and rings with the words, “Remember who you are and whose you are.”

For those of us whose days and lives are so fragmented – a lot of work here, a little time for family there, a little time for self shoved off to the side – it’s hard to see our lives as whole offerings to God. But that’s what I’ve finally concluded is true.

Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to thee.
Take my moments and my days; let them flow in ceaseless praise.
Take my hands, and let them move at the impulse of they love.
Take my feet, and let them be swift and beautiful for thee.- UMH 399

Which makes this video funny to me, because it’s true, too: Wrong Worship. Or at least in our selfish, normal mindset it is. But God is always asking more of us – whole lives offered as living sacrifices on the altar – hands motivated by holy love – feet (and cars) quick to serve.