how to pray in a presidential election year

I used to hate it when people said they would pray for me. I didn’t grow up in church, so usually, when folks said, “I’ll pray for you,” what I heard was “You are completely wrong and I will use my divine wish-granter to make you agree with me.”

I call this combat prayer – praying to God for God to make happen what we want to happen – or, in other words, making our agenda God’s agenda.

Now, after following God’s call into pastoral ministry and serving alongside some very beautiful souls in various churches and organizations, I realize that some people mean something very different when they say, “I’ll pray for you.” And, more shocking still, I’ve become a person who says “I’ll pray for you” with every intent of offering hope, comfort, and peace.

So, with election day just eight weeks away, when things seem more polarized and downright disrespectful than I can remember, how do we pray with and for one another without just praying our own will be done?

1) Recognize your own agenda. 

One of my favorite football movies is Rudy. In one scene, Father Cavanaugh finds the title underdog in a pew in a big, empty church:

Father Cavanaugh: Taking your appeal to a higher authority?

Rudy: I'm desperate. If I don't get in next semester, it's over. Notre Dame doesn't accept senior transfers.

Father Cavanaugh: Well, you've done a hell of a job, kid, chasing down your dream.

Rudy: Who cares what kind of job I did if it doesn't produce results? It doesn't mean anything.

Father Cavanaugh: I think you'll find that it will.

Rudy: Maybe I haven't prayed enough.

Father Cavanaugh: I don't think that's the problem. Praying is something we do in our time, the answers come in God's time.

Rudy: If I've done everything I possibly can, can you help me?

Father Cavanaugh: Son, in thirty-five years of religious study, I've come up with only two hard, incontrovertible facts: there is a God and I'm not Him.

Rudy has an agenda. We all have agendas. We have ideas of the way life is supposed to go, what we want, and how it should all work out. And sometimes we feel like if we just share our perfect plans with “a higher authority,” we’ll get it. We just need to pray harder or more often or use the right words.

But here’s the things, folks, prayer is not a magic incantation. There’s not a formula to how we should pray that guarantees we get exactly what we think we need or want.

Recognizing our agenda as we come before God is a big first step. It’s a moment to practice a self-awareness that sees virtues and faults, triumphs and mistakes. It’s a time to recognize that, in Father Cavanaugh’s words, “There is a God and I’m not him.”

2) Pray for the other. 

Being human and being American, I’ll tell you that I do have an opinion in this upcoming presidential election. I paid close attention to the primaries, I watch the news, I talk about the platforms and policies with my family and friends. And, after lots of thoughtful consideration and maybe just a bit of gut feeling, I’ve selected the candidate I will vote for in November.

And, being human and being American and being fully honest, I’ll tell you that a lot of times, when I see a bumper sticker or a yard sign for the other candidate, the first thought that comes to mind is something like, “How could they vote for ______? I mean, come on!”

The next step in praying in this presidential election year is this – pray for the people on the other side. Not a combat prayer – do not pray that those blankety-blank Trump/Clinton supporters will suddenly see the light and change their vote.

No. That’s not the point of this step. The point of this part of the prayer is to practice compassion. Try to imagine yourself in the place of the other. Try to understand their experiences, their struggles and hopes, and why the things they are hearing from one camp or the other are resonating with them.

Pray for the other as you would pray for yourself.

3) Pray for the whole. 

Now, after all this focus on the other, remember that there’s really no such things as the “other side.” Divisions and competition are often human inventions that create “us” and “them.” God sees creation and loves it all, from the best of us to the worst. Human beings, created in the image of God, have been given free will to make choices and exercise power, for better or worse. I’m sure God would like it to be for the better, but there’s nothing we can do that puts us beyond the reach of God’s love and grace.

After we’ve felt compassion for people on the “other side,” hopefully we recognize our common humanity and the core values that so many of us share – the longing for safety and security, the hope of providing a better future for our children, etc.

We have much more in common than the things that we allow to drive us apart. We are one common humanity, not just in the United States, but around the world. As you move through this practice, recognize your brothers and sisters and pray for the whole.

4) Listen.

Much of what comes to mind when we think about prayer revolves around us. We’re terribly self-centered that way sometimes – what should I say, what do I want, where do I begin?

Remember that you have a conversation partner when you pray – that God really is listening to you and may have something to say to you in response. It may not be an audible message that you could repeat verbatim. It may be a feeling or a sense. It may be a stirring or a new insight.

Whatever the case, when you show up to pray, know that God shows up, too.

I know I’m terrible about having a case of monkey mind when I enter into prayer. My thoughts tumble over one another – one part of my mind going over my to-do list, another thinking about what time it is or what I might make for dinner, another apologizing to God that I can’t seem to stay focused.

Instead of mentally castigating myself and giving up on the whole prayer thing, I try to follow the advice of a meditation leader I knew – I recognize the thoughts jockeying for position. I acknowledge the anxiety in myself that struggles to find peace. And I let those thoughts go, gently returning myself to the conversation with my friend, my Creator, my God.

However it works best for you, make room in your prayer for listening. You may be surprised by what you hear.

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Finally, friends, remember this – God works through and in spite of us. None of us are perfect and no matter who is in the White House next year, there is a lot of good we can do for one another and the world. Be the redeemed, beloved people God calls you to be and love one another, as God loves us. I’ll be praying for you.

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.

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. 

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. 

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!

Living in Community

Come Sunday at the Krum Church, we’ll remember that Easter people live in community. Not just the superficial community some of us may settle for – the wave to the neighbors, drive through downtown, smile politely but keep the deep things to ourselves stuff of over-scheduled, underfed lives. We are made to live in community. It’s what God intended! God, who lives in community within God’s own self in the eternal relationship between Father, Son and Holy Spirit, created us with the same capacity and necessity for love.

I found this wonderful story recently on Momastery, one of my favorite blogs: In carpentry, “sometimes an existing joist, which was designed to handle a certain load, becomes too weak. Maybe it was damaged by water or fire. Maybe it still has structural integrity but an addition is being constructed and the new load is going to be a lot heavier than before. Either way, now it is not as sturdy as it needs to be.

When a builder needs to strengthen that joist, she puts a new member right next to the original one and fastens the two together. Sometimes, two new joists are needed- one on either side. Do you know what they call that? A Sister Joist.”

We need our brothers and sisters and they need us. Sometimes something has happened in our lives, some tragedy or circumstance that has left us grieving and broken. Or perhaps good, new challenges have come along such as a change of job or the addition of children and the new load is heavier than before.

The common perception that Christianity is primarily about the individual and a personal relationship with Jesus Christ is an insidious, modern heresy. Like the serpent in the garden, it whispers that we can be enough on our own.

But look at Jesus’ own ministry! Jesus didn’t collect a studio of students and only teach private lessons. No, he called together a small group, knitting them together in relationship with himself as well as with one another. The small group of the disciples and their rabbi was dynamic and life-giving. It allowed for questions to surface and lessons to be taught while ensuring that when the teacher was no longer physically present, they wouldn’t be alone in this life. Not only would the disciples receive the gift of the Holy Spirit, to comfort and empower them, but they would have each other.

It’s a good thing for all of us who call ourselves Christian to echo this example. If, for today, we aren’t the joists that need shoring up, then we are the ones called to stand alongside others, to lend our strength for a season. Because it all goes around in time. Those who lend strength today will need to borrow it someday. And if we live outside a deep community, our resources in times of need will be sorely lacking.

Some of us are blessed to find our first and best community in our families. This week also brings us Mother’s Day, an American holiday which originated with Anna Jarvis, a laywoman from the Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, West Virginia in 1907.

While for some of us this holiday is a straight-forward obligation to call our moms or make sure we get a gift for the mother in our household, I ask us all to remember that for many, it’s not that simple. Motherhood, like any human relationship, can be a messy reality.

So, as you do your shopping or get your cards in the mail, consider praying for mothering relationships in all their forms. Those who have struggled with infertility. Those for whom motherhood was unwelcome or challenging. Those who have lost children to death. Those who have struggled in relationship with their mothers. Those who opened their hearts to children through adoption or foster care. Those who struggle to balance the demands of family life with work and other commitments.

Maybe Mother’s Day can be an opportunity to live a greater reality of what it means to be family. Jesus said, “Who are my mother and my brothers? Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother” (Mark 3:33, 35). In this simple statement, Jesus reconstitutes what it means to be a family, calling us to extend the love we usually reserve for our nuclear families much wider. So, this week, consider embracing the Creator’s blueprints and live in community.

Prom, Bad Choices, and Love

My mom came to visit recently. I was driving when I noticed her white knuckles as I exited the highway somewhere along I-35. Not taking her eyes from the road, she asked, “Don’t they have a yield sign?” Shrugging, I replied, “No, there are two lanes. We can both go. We just agree not to hit each other.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this as a metaphor for much of our daily living. It’s not a way of living life in all its fullness that comes by faith, but it’s a good start.

Similarly, I was struck by the lack of a traffic light in Krum when we first moved in. What I noticed at the four-way stop in downtown Krum is similar to what happens when I exit the highway. We recognize each person as they come to a stop. We let one another go. We take turns. It’s a lesson that I deeply appreciate as the mother of a 3-year-old. And it’s a lesson that we can often forget as adults in the relentless pursuit of me, mine, and more.

This past weekend, my son and I enjoyed the Easter Eggstravaganza hosted by the Christian Center Assembly of God. What an amazing party for our community! My son’s favorite stop was the Krum Police Department table. He wore his sticker for 3 days in a row, until the sticky had all worn off.

While we were there, I had a helpful conversation with one of the officers. He brought it to my attention that prom is coming up this Saturday night and wondered if I might say a word about responsible fun.

At first, I assumed he was talking about that prom night phenomenon which is usually prefaced by statements like “I love him/her!” “Everybody’s already doing it.” and “We’re graduating and we may never see each other again.” Surging hormones, young love, and a good party can set the stage for some bad choices. But the officer had something else in mind – drinking and driving.

There are conversations we need to have in our homes, whatever the age of your child, grandchild, niece/nephew, etc. My mom was always honest with me, figuring that if I could ask the question, I deserved the answer. And I find that many of our young people lack the basic information they often need to make good and wise decisions.

When I was a teenager going to parties, my mom said, “If you or your friends mess up, if you or your ride are in no condition to drive, call me. Whatever you’ve done, we’ll talk about it later. I would rather you get home safely and we can deal with the rest later.”

I was a typical teenager. I made mistakes, but I always knew that if I got stuck, I could call my mom. Yes, there may have been a whole lot of punishment on the other side, but I would be alive. She drilled this in to me and I knew she meant it. Because we had these conversations, I thought about my limits ahead of time. I was able to avoid some of the mistakes I might have made because I was able to become more grounded in the person I wanted to be, the person God made me to be, rather than folding under the weight of peer pressure.

I found myself echoing my mother’s words to me when I was an intern at a campus ministry. Many college students would celebrate their 21^st birthdays with a night of spectacularly bad decisions, but I made sure they had my number because I would much rather help with the fall out than their funeral.

So have these conversations, wherever you are. Be honest with the young people in your life, whether at home or at church. Tell them not only the truth about your life – its struggles as well as its joys – but the hopes and dreams you have for them.

Through real relationships, we give them our love, which is what God asks of us. Jesus says to his disciples, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12). That means not just when they’re making A’s, not just when they win a championship, not just when they’re bright and shiny. All the time. And through our love, they just might catch a glimpse of the all-encompassing, perfect love of God.

But first, let me take a selfie

Last Wednesday, the youth at my church introduced me to this new, catchy little song by The Chainsmokers. Is it what we should be listening to at church? No. Is it what our young people are listening to? Yes. And as a church and a community, we’re naïve if we think we can ignore these things and expect them to go away.

“Can you guys help me pick a filter?
I don't know if I should go with XX Pro or Valencia
I wanna look tan
What should my caption be?
I want it to be clever…
I only got 10 likes in the last 5 minutes
Do you think I should take it down?
Let me take another selfie.”

Many people dismiss social media as some kind of fad – something that is here today and gone tomorrow. But Leonard Sweet, a leading pastor in the United Methodist Church, as well as other theologians, offer a startlingly different view. Sweet says that social media is as much a revolution to our culture as Gutenberg’s printing press. The printing press made it possible for ordinary people to have books, including the Bible. It made it worthwhile to learn to read, to be able to study and learn. No one alive now would turn their noses up at books, considering it irrelevant to their work.

Sweet warns that the same can be said for social media. We ignore it at our own peril since it is a paradigm-shifter, creating a new atmosphere that our children and youth will take for granted. Most of us already know that young people are tech-natives. They intuitively understand technology, using new smart phones, tablets, and other hardware and software with ease. And the pace of technological innovation is staggering.

Social media is just another advent in the rapidly growing world of technology. And like any tool, it can be used positively or negatively – in ways that encourage health, wholeness, and life or destroy it.

This song is proof of one destructive tendency our young people encounter everyday in their social media driven lives. “Selfies” are pictures of yourself that can be posted to a variety of social media platforms – Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat, etc. And, more importantly, they become a way of validating or negating self-esteem.

When I was a kid, I dressed in a relative void. I may have taken a couple of friends to the mall with me, to help me pick out the perfect outfit or prom dress, but otherwise, I trusted my own taste as well as the input from what my peers were wearing. And, if I didn't get it quite right, I only heard about it from a limited number of people, even when I was in a class of 500+.

Now, when a young person takes a selfie, they may have not even bought the clothes yet. They may be in the dressing room, considering the purchase, and instantly, they can have “likes” or comments from dozens if not hundreds of people. And, like so often when we are distanced by technology, folks can be cruel! The onslaught of comments and put-downs can damage our youth. I’m sure you've heard the tragic stories of young people hurt to such an extent by an overwhelming barrage of destructive comments via technology that they ultimately chose to take their own lives.

So what can we, as a community and as a church, do to help? The answer is not simply unplug, although carefully supervised screen time and online profiles is a wise course. But additionally, I would encourage us to build authentic, real-life community with our young people.

This Sunday at the Krum Church, we’ll be affirming our belief in the gift of the church. Church is not limited to a physical address, a building, or a place you go occasionally. In the New Testament sense, the church or ekklesia, is the gathering of those called out by God.

And just what are we called out of? We are called out of the ordinary, out of the typical, out of the complacent and self-centered. We are called out of normal human inclinations to be good news to the world – to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and eat with sinners. In other words, we’re called to love God and to love our neighbor as ourselves. And a great place to start would be our young people. Consider how you might embody the unconditional love of God for someone who might desperately need it. 

Marks on the Body

A few days ago, I realized that I still had a faint bruise on my left arm from my procedure more than a week earlier. A little closer look let me know that I also had a little mark from the entry point of the IV. This mark was just a little further up my arm than the shiny white scar from where the port was when I gave birth to my first son. Reaching around to the back of my hand, I felt for the small bump that was my souvenir from the days spent in the hospital, losing my second son. I wondered then and I continue to reflect on how these children of mine are leaving their marks on my body.

It’s not just the little scars and bumps from the medical technology, or the more expected and natural stretch and change elsewhere. By changing my body, my children have inexplicably and wondrously changed me down to the core. I’m like the Grinch in the 1966 version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. “And what happened, then? Well, in Whoville they say - that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day.” 

Or as we read in Ezekiel, “A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh” (35:26). I would hope that my heart was not so small or hard to start. I remember quite clearly one person who told me I would never make it as a pastor because I was too compassionate. Regardless, what I had for a heart has grown by leaps and bounds with each child.

As Christians, we have an embodied theology – literally that our understanding of God takes place in a body, more precisely in the person and work of Jesus the Christ. Jesus, while fully divine, consented to become fully human, too. He was born as we are, lived as we do, and died as we all will one day. But in Jesus, God had the definitive word on our sad situation. Not content to let us wallow in our sin, God reached out toward us, proving God’s tremendous love toward us.

And I can’t help but wonder at the marks on Jesus’ body - the marks on his body that represent part of God’s labor pains, what God was willing to endure for our sake. I am confident that in the resurrection, Jesus’ body could have become spotless and perfect. Yet we read in the gospel of John, "So the other disciples told [Thomas], 'We have seen the Lord,' But he said to them, 'Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.' A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, 'Peace be with you.' Then he said to Thomas, 'Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe'" (20:25-27).  

God bears the marks of our birth in God’s own body. Thomas is not shamed by Jesus for struggling to believe. Jesus simply gives him what he needs – the ability to reach out and touch his body, even though Thomas doesn’t take him up on it.

I wonder how many times our brothers and sisters around us need just that same offer of reassurance. I see folks all around me who bear the marks of their life on their bodies. It would be easy to judge the unmarried young woman who is great with child or the man who smells of alcohol, stumbling down the sidewalk. But they are already bearing the marks of this life.

What would it mean for us to instead offer them the compassion we bear, the grace we have received, the love of a Savior who offered his all to save us. Imagine what new stories they could begin to embody, if we were only so courageous. 

Creative Valentine's Day for the Craft-Challenged

Well, this is becoming a series. As I said recently, I am not crafty. I appreciate those who are and, by the blessing of Pinterest, I can follow directions and do some of these things myself! Here is the simple Valentine's Day cards we made for James's grandparents and great-grandparents that I think is super-cute (and super-easy!)

Step 1: Find some Valentine's Day-appropriate construction paper. I guess thinner paper would do, but construction paper is nice and sturdy. We did ours with red paper, because that is what I found in our supply cabinet. Fold the paper in half.

Step 2: Hold your kid's hand on the paper so that the index finger and thumb are on the folded edge. Explain to them that they are going to make someone's day so much better as you do your best to trace their hand with a pencil. Don't hold on too tight - this is supposed to be fun. I imagine, if your child is older, they could do this him/her-self.

Don't worry about tracing the hand for each card. If you have a little one (like my 2 1/2 year old), send them on their way to play or, better yet, go play with them and do the rest later, when they're asleep.

Step 3: Cut out the hand you traced with the paper still folded, being careful not to severe the link connecting the index fingers and thumbs. This is where the heart will appear!

If you need to make more than 1 card (which I bet you do, since I went to the trouble of making one for myself), just trace this one. It's a lot easier than making your little one sit for many tracings. Again, if your child is older, they may actually enjoy doing the tracing themselves repeatedly.

Step 4: Write or draw something on the "front" of the card so that when the recipient sees it, they will orient it the correct way.

Step 5: Write something extra cute on the inside, where the heart appears.



I had sparkly foam heart stickers, but I really couldn't justify taking away from the beautiful heart that the hands make, so I didn't use them. I also wrote the year so that we could all be amazed at how small James's hands were back when. And there you have it - cute cards from your child to all their loved ones.

Hope your Valentine's Day was special! How did you share or show love?

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.

Revelation at the Rail

I was serving communion on Sunday. I had half a loaf of bread in my right hand, swaddled like a newborn, and I was tearing pieces to give to the people worshiping with us. Pinch, tear, give, cover, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” It’s a powerful moment; one of the reasons I pursued becoming an elder in the United Methodist Church. The sacraments are holy, mysterious things in which bread, water, and other common elements become conveyors of grace. Good stuff.

Now for my confession – even extraordinary means of grace can become routine in the life of a pastor. I know – you’re shocked and appalled. I wonder of ob’s and midwives would confess the same thing about birth. In any case, on Sunday, I was a little distracted. I was doing a very un-choreographed dance with my partner, who had the tray of shot-glass sized juice cups – to the rail, around the Advent wreath, around the lectern, avoid the other servers! Bend, serve, watch, move, repeat.

There are a lot of mundane things I think about as I serve communion. Are her hands open? Is he ready to receive? Do I have enough bread left to manage this group, or should I signal for more? How many folks to go? Watch me, juice server, so we make sure that everybody gets both. Is she going to be able to get up from kneeling? The juice cups are stacking up there. Who left some bread on the rail? Seriously.

Then I noticed a pair of older adults making their way to the rail with their granddaughter. The grandmother, a tall, slender, stately woman, carefully knelt at the rail, arranging her skirts. The granddaughter, who’s maybe 3 years old, watched and stepped up onto the kneeling cushion before kneeling, too. The grandfather knelt on her other side. Then the little girl realized she couldn’t see over the rail, so she stood back up. She was very cute – all blue eyes and blond hair and sweet expression. The grandparents cupped their hands, the signal that they were ready to receive, and she followed suit.

I smiled, a little wistful. I haven’t figured out how to worship with my family much yet. My son is at the church all morning, most of the time. He comes in for children’s time, twice, but then is whisked away by the childcare staff before communion, which is probably for the best for a very wiggly 2 year old. And if my husband is in church, he’s usually running the sound board, which puts him across the sanctuary and up a floor from me.

So I savored the sweetness of this family moment, of a child being brought to taste and see faith. I felt such love within me – a love that started with my child, but which, more and more, is being grown by God. And I realized that this is who I am to be as a pastor. I am called to love each and every person who comes to the rail, who comes through the door, who is a part of my community, like I am able to love this child. God continues to teach me, even when I’m not expecting an epiphany. What has God taught you lately?