Sermon based on Matthew 18:15-20
About ten years ago, Charlie and I ended up in a feud with our next door neighbor. Earl was a gruff guy, and not very friendly. He also didn’t keep his house up, and it made our newly renovated home look kind of bad. There were a lot of things that needed to be repaired, and he had the skills and time to do it, but he had not interest in it.
One day, my sister in law was preparing to move out, so we blocked a few open spaces in front of the house with chairs while we waited for the moving truck. Earl came home, saw the chairs, and parked directly between them, commenting loudly about it to himself, and suggesting that we engage him bodily.
We were furious, and so was he. And we didn’t understand why he made this aggressive move.
The day did not end well between our families. Words were said. Harsh words. The next morning, I woke up to the sounds of Earl telling all the neighbors what terrible people we were. He threatened to burn his house down, so that ours would burn with it.
I was really scared.
So, I took a deep breath and went outside to talk to Earl, with my neighbors as witnesses. Not because i was following the principles of Matthew 18 here, but because I knew I was right and I could explain it and defuse the situation. And sitting in the house he was threatening to burn down didn’t seem like a great idea to me.
Turns out, we’d been making him mad for months. MONTHS.
There were four cars from our house that were parked on the street–we had a lot of people living with us at the time–but apparently there was a street agreement that if you had more than one car, you were supposed to park it on the side street. It’s actually a great idea, but no one told us.
He was also mad that the people that renovated our home did not hire black owned contractors. Now, we didn’t renovate the house–but he thought we had–and he was mad at us for that.
When we realized that we both had been misunderstood, a wave of relief rolled over us. This relief turned into a pretty good neighbor relationship. He never improved his house as we hoped he would, but he was good to my kids–bringing them books, and encouraging the training wheels to come off when Charlie and I couldn’t. And he fixed our heater a time or two. And, in turn, we’d bring him a cold six pack now and then and pay him a union wage when he fixed our heater.
I think often about those misunderstandings that brewed because we didn’t talk to each other, because we didn’t exchange simple neighborly information, or ask the right questions of each other. Who knows would could have happened if that misunderstanding continued.
In our gospel lesson today, Jesus offers practical advice to the church. If you have trouble with your fellow Christian, go to them and talk it out. Seems so simple, doesn’t it? But I can probably count on one hand the number of times someone has come to me to tell me they were having trouble with me. And on the other hand I can count even fewer times that I’ve gone to someone with a grievance. It’s much easier to complain to our friends that agree with us, than it is to go to the one who we feel has offended us.
But it’s hard to take that step. It’s hard to go to our friend or community member and say that we’ve been hurt, or that we are concerned about something that we see happening. It is a risk to say a hard thing. We risk getting hurt if we say something and are rebuffed. We risk being totally wrong about what we’re seeing and experiencing.
It’s normal to worry about the risk of saying something, but it seems that there is a much greater risk in not saying something. A small conflict can grow and evolve into resentment, anger, taking sides, or threats to burn down your neighbor’s house.
It seems to me that not saying something is more of a risk in the long run, than taking the risk to speak up. There’s too much potential left for misunderstanding and it can tear a community apart.
This is the other thing I know about talking to your sibling in Christ about something that bothers you: No matter how hard it is to go to someone, it is a sign of investment in your faith community to have those difficult conversations. To put it another way–putting yourself out there is a sign that you love and care about this body, this community of faith and the people in it.
A little part of me loves hearing about conflict brewing. It means that there is opportunity for deeper relationship, for deeper understanding. Not just between two people, or a few people, but for the whole group. Because when a conflict is between two people, it’s ultimately between two groups, two tribes of people.
There’s an old Middle Eastern tradition of conflict resolution called Sulha. In Hebrew, sulha means “table”, and in Arabic, it means to mend. This tradition was born at a time before there were laws, and criminal justice systems–when tribes settled disputes between other tribes. Sulha came into being before Islam, and while Muslim communities use it, it is also rooted in the other Abrahamic traditions–understanding that if you have a dispute, you must go to your neighbor.
Sulha is rooted in tribe, it is rooted in loyalty. In Sulha, disputing families are brought together by their muhktars, their tribal elders, to talk about the conflict. We’re not talking about small families either. In these communities, families can be 40, 50, 60 people large. So two families gather, and the dispute is named by the tribal elders. The victim and offender do not speak, but the tribal elders describe the dispute.
And then they share a meal.
At a certain point after the meal has been shared, when the time feels right, the offender’s family offers restitution. Maybe the family’s oldest son will do community service, or offer financial restitution. Or maybe a goat will be offered. And in return, as a show of good faith, the victim’s family will offer something too. Both families, both tribes put something on the table, and both tribes become bound to each other. In being bound, they leave their grievances, and work together as reconciled tribes.
Sulha is as old as Jesus’ last meal shared with his disciples. It’s as old as the table spread in the presence of the Psalmist’s enemies. It is the practice of going to your neighbor to air grievances, and coming back with an elder or two, and finally the whole tribe if necessary.
This ancient practice is a practice to bring people together, acknowledging the grievance and leaving it on the table after eating together. It’s not easy. It may feel a little risky. But, I believe that tribe, or community, or church is worth the risk. If we weren’t willing to risk a bit of ourselves for it, what is even the point of being part of it?
This morning we gather in this room. We praise, we confess, we bless, and when the time is right, we eat together. And here, we lay our grievances, and affirm our tribe, our kinship, our bond of faith. Because what is bound on earth is bound in heaven.
We were created by God to love each other and be in relationship together. We often describe this as easy work–just love each other–but in reality, loving our tribe, our church, our community, isn’t always easy. It involves being hurt, and risking hurting others. It is difficult conversations over the table, hearing another person’s perspective, disagreeing, trying to find a new way. Sometimes it involves periods of silence, anger, and space.
But this is what church has been created for. Not just the happy times, not just the times of agreement. Church is created for the disagreements. Because in those difficult spaces are opportunities for deeper relationships, and a better understanding of who we are, and who we are called to be.
AMEN.
Sermon based on Exodus 3:1-15
Many years ago, when I was a social worker, I led a crisis intervention training for families that worked in the child welfare system. At the beginning of every training I would talk about about the definition of a crisis. It seems a bit of an obvious place to start, but it’s important too. A crisis in the life of a child in the foster care system is a time of great danger for the child and those around them, but on the other side of that danger, there is an opportunity.
I’ve been thinking about this definition of crisis as I visited Palestine in the last few weeks. Crisis is danger and opportunity. Spending two weeks in the West Bank is to be ready for crisis at any time–checkpoints, military presence, witnessing arrests of Palestinian children–all of these things keep the heart rate elevated.
A week into the Palestine delegation last month we were in Bethlehem, and I was leading the group from one appointment to another. It was the equivalent of a two block walk to the next visit, but it couldn’t have felt more distant or difficult than that. We walked from Wi’am–a Palestinian Conflict Resolution organization–to the nearby refugee camp. To get there, we wound past the apartheid wall, kicking at empty tear gas canisters and stun grenades as we walked, then entered the Muslim Cemetery, which was overlooked by multiple military guard towers. The cemetery was not a simple set of rows, as they are here. It was a maze of elevated rectangles adorned with broken stones and Arabic calligraphy.
I led the delegation through a maze of gravestones, with the smell of tear gas that had been dispensed that morning still hanging in the hot afternoon air. Things felt tense and dangerous.
And, in the middle of that tense, dangerous, two block walk, where I could feel the eyes of the soldiers on us, I got us lost. I could see where the destination was and I couldn’t get us there. It felt dangerous. But it also felt like a opportunity for the group to work together, to listen deeply, to pay attention to our surroundings, and to trust each other.
Everything turned out fine, but in that brief moment of crisis–lost in a cemetery, being watched by soldiers, and knowing there had been clashes where we were walking just a few hour before–there was a sense of danger, and a strange sense of opportunity for the group to come together and take care of each other.
Our Moses story is also another crisis moment–a time of danger, and of opportunity. Now Moses was an Israelite, but had grown up as Egyptian royalty. He was bi-cultural. He understood both worlds in some way, and could code switch, communicating with royalty and slave alike.
But Moses had killed an Egyptian in response to witnessing this Egyptian attacking one of his own Hebrew people. And after this murder, he fled to Mt. Horeb (also known as Mt. Sinai), was taken in by Jethro and his family. There he married, and took on the family vocation of sheep herding. Moses–once bi-cultural, is able to communicate with another tribe of people, and having joined a new community, is now versed in another language, culture and vocation.
As multi-lingual, cross-cultural, man in hiding, Moses, led the sheep to graze on the mountain, he encountered his own crisis–a bush that was burning but not consumed. Moses ran from Egypt and the enslavement of his people, but here on Mt. Horeb, he could not hide from the face of God, which he encountered in this burning bush.
This was a crisis moment for Moses. It was a time of great danger–to encounter God face to face–but it was also a moment of opportunity for Moses. There he encountered God, and learned where all his multi-vocational, multi-lingual, and multi-cultural skills and experiences would be directed–to the release of his Israelite siblings from slavery.
In that crisis intervention training I would lead, I talked about the two basic human responses to crisis–fight or flight. To fight in a crisis is to combat and destroy everything, without really addressing the crisis. It shows up in name calling, accusations, and saying and doing things you don’t really mean, and will probably have to apologize for later.
To flee is to avoid the conflict altogether, to hide from it, to pretend it doesn’t exist. Avoiding the crisis for some is easier than looking at ourselves, how we’ve contributed to a crisis, and how we might need to change.
Fight or flight responses are buried deeply into our DNA–It’s what our hunter gatherer ancestors did to protect themselves from danger, and it’s what we do to keep ourselves and our families safe.. But not every crisis is life or death. There is something we can do in a crisis besides fight or flight–we can pause. We can examine. We can take a moment and ask good questions. We see that moment of crisis as holy.
It seems a little counter intuitive to pause. But a crisis, while potentially dangerous, is also an opportunity. It’s an opportunity to grow, to change, to see God and to notice God’s presence. When things continue, business as usual, and there is no crisis or the crisis has been hidden, there is also no change, and no impetus to change.
A week ago, the Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation spent the night in the little village of Umm Al Khair. The village is right up against a settlement in the South Hebron Hills, and is constantly under threat of demolition. The village is in a perpetual state of crisis–they never know when soldiers will come into the village, or when bulldozers would enter the village and tear down a home.
Our presence that night was one of solidarity. We were there to witness any crisis that would come. It holds a lot of power when internationals witness these sorts of events. And the village was expecting trouble at any moment.
But there’s the thing about a constant state of crisis–you can only sustain it for so long. At a certain point, you need laughter to break through the chaos. And that night, relaxing under the stars on the side of the hill, just feet from an illegal settlement, our group laughed and played with the people of Umm Al Khair. We shared stories about our lives–how many children we each had, how many spouses we had, and what our hopes for our lives are. We exchanged cigarettes and sweets, as barefoot children ran in and out of the space where we talked.
And then we went deeper. We talked about our faiths traditions, the meaning of family and multiple spouses, and the beauty and utility of our language.
The Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation knew the risks of being there–we could expect to be awoken in the middle of the night by soldiers, or the headlights of bulldozers. We could be startled awake by rocks thrown from the settlement onto the tin roofs of the village homes. But, while there was a sense of danger, I was more aware that I was seeing the face of God in the eccentric village elder, Yusef, and his nephews, Tareq and Bilin. I was seeing the face of God in the children that played, un-phased by the looming crisis of home demolitions and settler attacks.
Before our group went to bed, the village kids disbursed from our space. They were barefoot–I remember thinking how hard the rocks of the village must be on their feet. But I also felt very strongly that bare feet was appropriate. This village was holy ground. This gathering was communion, and the crisis was a moment of transformation.
Moses recognized that the place of crisis–standing in front of that burning bush–was a dangerous moment. It was a holy, dangerous moment. And it was a moment of transformation. Trying to extinguish or stamp out the fire would not stop God. Running from this bush would not prevent Moses from seeing the face of God.
So, there on the rocky cliffs of Mt. Horeb, Moses took off his shoes. There among his sheep, and surrounded by sharp thistles that grew out of the ground, Moses paused, took off his shoes, and recognized that in this crisis, he was seeing God.
This year has been full of crises, personal and global. I see us tearing each other apart with accusations about who is responsible for what. Antifa’s good; no, it’s bad. Whose fault is Houston? What’s wrong with Joel Olsteen that he won’t open up his church? What’s wrong with Joel Olsteen that he’s taking offerings to help flood victims? Why is the First Lady wearing stilettos to a hurricane? Why isn’t the President hugging children?
We tear each other apart with accusations, and they get us nowhere. Or we turn off the news, hoping that that if we turn it off, it will stop. Fight or flight.
This is no difference in personal relationships and the crises that come. Fight or flight.
But perhaps instead of fight or flight, we need to take a moment. Take off our shoes, and see the holiness buried in the crisis. In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity for transformation, for change, for seeing God at work where we couldn’t before.
Friends, the ground feels unsteady beneath us. The rocks are sharp, the way is uncertain. But we are on holy ground. In the midst of this chaos, we are on holy ground, and God is here. God is here. God is here. AMEN.
Sermon based on Psalm 145
God is love.
It’s a phrase that rolls off our tongues pretty easily.
God is love.
It’s a statement of fact, and a statement of reality.
But this week I’ve had myself tied up in knots about these three little words–God is love.
It’s the kind of thing that when you say it enough, you start to wonder, “what does this even mean any more?” Like a kid that learns a new word, and repeats it over and over, dissecting it and trying to understand it until it makes less sense than when they first learned it. “Butterfly. Butterfly. Butter. Fly. Butter? Fly?”
God is love seems like one of those things. We say it so much, and I’ve thought about it so much that I’m beginning to wonder what it even means anymore.
What does God is Love mean in this world full of hate and violence, this world where basic human rights are not met, even when there are resources to do so? What does God is Love mean every day this week, when our governing authorities have said or done something more painful and destructive to the people that live here? What does God is love mean when we are numb from all the sadness and brokenness?
God is love. What does it even mean any more? How do we understand it as more than just something we say here?
A friend told me a story of her teen aged daughter, who struggles to understand Christianity and God and everything that the Church believes. She admitted to her Grandmother recently that she does not believe in God.
Grandmom didn’t get upset, like the child thought she would. Instead she replied, “Do you believe in love?”
“Yes, of course!” the child said.
“Then,” said grandmom, “you believe in God.”
This snapshot of a moment between Grandmother and granddaughter has me trying to think about God is love a little differently this week. In my mind, God is love has always translated to God is loving. And while that statement is true, it feels harder when we put it up against the state of affairs in this world.
Instead, I’m thinking about God and love being the same thing. God equals love. God is the same as love.
Which means that God is intimacy. God is relationship. God is holding some newborn twins this week and smelling their heads and holding their teeny tiny fingers while they sleep. God is hugs. God is that moment–that split second where all is right in the world. God is reconciled relationships. God is the same thing as love.
I told you that I have been tied up in knots about this God is love thing this week, so I went to my spritual director and asked her about love. Because we’ve been talking a lot lately about what fear and anger feel like, so she asked me what love feels like. I thought about it for a moment, and said, “Love feels like I can breathe, and when I breathe in, I am full of love.”
God is love. God is breath, God is fullness. God is the same thing as this love, this breath, this fullness.
This week, we’re focusing on the congregational core conviction, which says that: God the creator of the universe, is a God of love, and longs for mercy and justice, for humanity and creation.
So, translating this a bit, we could also say that Love created the universe, and longs for mercy and justice for humanity and creation. God longs for mercy and justice. Love longs for mercy and justice.
And while we are doing some translating here, let’s go back to Psalm 145, which we read earlier. Let’s exchange the word “God” for “love.”
Love is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger.
Love is good to all and compassionate to all creation.
All creation praises love, and all people bless love.
They tell of love’s glory and power and speak of love’s strength. Love makes known all mighty and glorious acts of love.
Love reigns for all ages, and love’s dominion endures from generation to generation.
There’s something else about God in this that is important. There’s something about love that is important. Love is more than longing. Love is more than a warm feeling when holding babies. Love acts for mercy and justice. Love is an action. Love is God and love is the action of God.
This week, my friend from Hebron in the West Bank, Hamed Q., visited Philadelphia, and many of us who have taken the Christian Peacemaker Teams trip put on a fundraiser for his organization. Hamed’s the energizer bunny of Hebron. When he’s not working as for an organization that reports on the conflict, he’s supporting the communities that are most deeply impacted by the conflict. For folks that struggle to stay on their lands because another checkpoint has been added, Hamed sneaks supplies in to build an addition on their home.
For families who have to send their kids to school through several checkpoints, soldiers and settlers, Hamed builds schools so kids can go to school in their own neighborhoods, without crossing checkpoints and facing soldiers.
Acting on a macro level is difficult these days in the west bank, but what Hamed is doing–keeping families in their homes, and opening schools in places where they can’t get supplies in to build–these are acts of love. And this love looks like defiance and insubordination to some, but they are deep love.
I asked Hamed this week how he kept himself sane in Hebron. It’s so easy to be depressed and overwhelmed by living in this most occupied city. He told me he works with these most difficult communities because it’s how he stays sane. He said, “I have to do this, or I couldn’t live here.” Love has to act to stay sane, to stay alive.
Just like we have to say God of Grace Hear our prayer when we share our prayers and praises here. Just like we have to reach out to people here when they are hurting. Just like when someone is sick, we have to send flowers or check in, or text, or make a casserole.
To stay sane, God has to act. To stay sane, love has to act. To stay sane, we have to act.
We are not God, but we are made in God’s image. We aren’t love, but we know how to give it, now to share it, and we know we need to receive it. To combat the hate in this world that makes our chests tighten, and makes us want to stay in bed, we need to channel love, channel God. We need to do things that give us breath and life, that take away power from those forces that deal in death and fear and hate
Our core conviction says, “God the creator of the universe, is a God of love, and longs for mercy and justice, in humanity and creation.” We believe in God because we believe in love. And we know how much we need love right nowadays.
God is a God of love. God is love. And we believe in love here. I can see that. So we believe in God. AMEN.
In June of 1995, my mom was given six months to live. After many rounds of cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, she got the news that her cancer was incurable. Radiation would slow it down, but this cancer would eventually kill her.
Mom was 44 at the time, and had just graduated from college. As a new empty-nester, she had big dreams. She planned to be a social worker with young women in her hometown. But, the cancer diagnosis changed all that.
Facing that diagnosis, my mom was determined to take every day and live. She cashed out her life insurance and gave money away. She planned a big vacation with my dad to the west coast, and they visited friends and drove down route 1. She squeezed in every moment she could, caught every sunset, sat on the beach as often as possible. Until one day in November when the cancer made it impossible to walk. And then she held court from her bed until mid-December when the cancer took her speech.
She didn’t waste a minute. She said all the things she needed to say. She made sure we all knew how she felt about us.
She once described her death as a healing of sorts, and I recall having some very strong, angry feelings about that. How dare she say that her leaving this earth and all that loved her was a form of healing.
But as I approach the age she would have been when she died, I appreciated the sense of fearlessness she had about death. She was not afraid to die. Death didn’t sting when it was up close like that. It didn’t frighten her. It was an end to her suffering.
And in dying, she was somehow learning how to live. In letting go of that fear, she was learning about what was most important. She was living by free-falling into the arms of death. And it was the most terrifying thing I’ve witnessed.
Our core conviction this week is about a key tenant of our Anabaptist beliefs–discipleship. Our core conviction states: “We follow in the way of Jesus, whose life, death and resurrection teaches us how to live.”
This is what discipleship is in it’s essence. We are followers of Jesus. Our lives are not spent mimicking Jesus–I haven’t recently been able to turn water into wine, I haven’t healed the sick or been raised from the dead. None of these are skills I’ve been given. Discipleship is more than just doing exactly what Jesus did–we live in a different world and time. But discipleship is instead thinking bout the times we live in now, and wondering together–what would Jesus have to say about this time and place? How would he want us to live? What tables would he be turning? Who would he be eating with, walking with? Who would he be admonishing?
This is discipleship–living our lives having learned lessons from his teachings, his life, and his ministry, and applying these lessons to our modern lives.
As Anabaptists–peace loving, Jesus followers–we have much more of an affinity towards following the life of Jesus. It’s the death and resurrection that feels tricky. Living life like Jesus lived life is it’s own challenge, but it feels more manageable than thinking about dying like Jesus did, or resurrecting like Jesus.
Jesus death taught us how to live without fear of death. Jesus–with his own life and witness–asks us to live as people that aren’t scared of the all consuming, all powerful death dealing empire that we live in.
Just as you do with your family that have have died, I think about what my mom would be saying about the world we live in, what kind of grandmother she’d be, how she would be influencing my life. But, I also think about what is possible because of her death. Because of her death, I ended up dealing with the theological issues the thrust me into seminary. Because of her death, I’ve had to do things on my own that I hope my kids never do alone. But because of that, I am who I am. Her death taught me how to live.
And because of the life and death of Jesus, we are who we are. We see the world the way we do because Jesus showed us the ways our thinking is so deeply influenced by empire and fear and old, entrenched ideas. Jesus looked at religious authorities in the face and said, “ I am Jesus, God’s son, sent here to set people free.” Jesus upset the social system by eating with people that were working for the roman authorities, and by eating with women that everyone else looked at suspiciously. And Jesus did these things knowing that it could and probably would get him killed. He was well aware of the consequences, and he did it anyway.
Jesus life and death has changed how we Christians think about risk. At least I hope it has. When we think about what it means to be a sanctuary for our undocumented sisters, brothers, and siblings, we know the risk. The fear is there. But we know what is right. We know what discipleship looks like in this moment.
When it comes to bringing in our friends who are without homes through Interfaith Hospitality Network, it sometimes feels like a risk, or more often an inconvenience, but we know who Jesus made time for, and who Jesus ate with, and his life and death changes us again.
And these are the easy things. The more we walk with Jesus, the more we hear the call to go deeper, to walk closer to the life and death of Jesus–in our work, in our neighborhood, and in this faith community.
Shortly after my mom died, I had a vivid, personal dream about her. We were at a SEPTA train station, and she was sitting on the platform, with her little yappy dog in her lap, and a big bright bag sitting next to her. We talked about my work, our family, my life, how much I missed her. And then the train arrived, and she slipped on almost without me noticing. And before the doors of the train closed, I realized she had left her big bright bag on the platform. I called after her, “Mom, don’t leave! You need your bag!” I was crying, worried that she had left something important behind. I knew it was the last time I’d see her in life, or in my dreams. And as the doors closed, I heard her say, “You know what to do.”
And then I woke up. I didn’t know what was in the bag. And I didn’t know what to do.
There are times in my life that I like to imagine what was in the bright bag she left for me. I certainly wasn’t family heirlooms. It’s the intangible things that are gifted to me from my persistent, relentless, free-falling mom. These characteristics show up in a flash of anger from one kid, or a persistence from another. It shows up in a particular looks I’ve been known to give. Most people don’t know that it’s my mom, but I know it’s her. And those are ways that I see her living on in the world. Those things in that bag and resources constantly used, a well of love drawn from with regularity.
Jesus first disciples found the resurrected Christ in the breath of calm blown on them in their most fearful moments. They found the resurrected Christ walking with them when they didn’t even see him at first. They found the resurrected, hopeful face of Christ as they ate together, as they looked across the table at each other.
And as they told the unbelievable stories of Jesus’ life, and told how the cross didn’t have power because it couldn’t kill Jesus, and how they saw Jesus, ate with Jesus, walked with Jesus just days after he came off that deadly cross–that had power for those 1st century Jewish and Roman folks. It changed hearts, and behaviors, and gave Christians the courage to face whatever would come, because Jesus had already done it. It wasn’t scary anymore.
My mom was no saint, and she was not Jesus. But there are important things I learned from walking alongside of her. And when I die, most of those stories die with me. Those looks that were quintessentially my mother’s looks will become my look. Her persistence–that gift passed on to one child, and it is all theirs to make their own.
But in Jesus, we have these stories to hold onto. We have his life to examine, and his call to go and do likewise. And we have more than that. We have his death and resurrection story. The death meant to warn us to not fight against the powerful has become our marching orders. The unbelievable resurrection stories have become our reminders to look for signs of the resurrected Christ everywhere.
I strive to live as Christ did, not afraid of death, but convinced of God’s love and prepared to demonstrate it at all times. And I hope in those moments when I am afraid, I can feel the breath of Christ breathe on me, I hope I can remember the things I’ve learned. I hope I can follow in the example of Jesus Christ, whose life, death and resurrection teaches me, and you, and the whole Church how to live. Without fear of death, without fear of the consequences that will come. And with full certainty of Christ’s presence guiding us as we go. AMEN.
Cross Posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/09/15/emerging/
The ground beneath us shifted in 2017, and to be honest, it really messed me up. I’ve been in a haze of sadness, anger, and most of all, uncertainty. How do we live when the world is like this? What do we do? How do we respond?
I’ve had no words. Everything I’ve said has felt hollow, or wrong, or disingenuous. (Hey, even pastors go through this.)
Some good spiritual direction, good friends, and hard conversations have helped me to see the world through the eyes of a God at work, present and full of love for all of us.
During the last several months, I’ve noticed that my response to this ever-changing world has been to withdraw. I’ve spent more time at home. I’ve comforted myself with food, with distractions, with anything that will fill the emptiness and sadness I’ve felt this year.
I know that these withdraws have been to protect my tender heart. I see that now. But, what we need in times like this is community. Even though it has felt difficult to reach out, I’m always glad that I do. I need community to remind me that I’m not alone, that we are strong and powerful, and that we have resources in each other.
I sense that I am not the only one that has been in hiding this year. Last Sunday, as we sang together, I sensed in the room that we were relieved to be together, that we needed to sing together, we needed to see each other and share communion together. For the first time in a while, I felt us breathe together, and it felt good. Really good. And I wanted more of it.
As we begin the fall season, and the weather changes along with the trees, I invite you to reach out to your community. Share a meal together. Invite each other into your imperfect homes and lives. And tell the truth about your lives. Because I don’t know what things will look like in the future, but I know that I want to walk with you. I know that I need you to survive. I know that we were built for community. So let’s be community to each other.
Cross0Posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/10/05/sing-a-new-song-into-being/
Since the Church retreat a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about the “Hymn-Off” we did that Sunday morning. I had a song in mind to win, and it did not win. My Life Flows On came in a close second to Wade in the Water.
I’ve been trying to figure out why. My LIfe Flows On has been the anthem for this church for many years. When I think about being voted out of Franconia Conference (20 years ago this month), I think about singing and weeping together–”No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I’m clinging. Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?” I also think about singing this song to my children in their cribs, weeping over what storms they may one day face.
It’s the song of my heart. And it’s the heart song of many others here. But, that hymn off demonstrated a new song brewing in people’s hearts.
Last week, I met with the folks that are working on a new Mennonite Hymnal. One of the songs that’s coming out of this hymnal process is called, “Sing a New World into Being.” As we met together, we pondered what world the current hymnal is singing into being, and we wondered what world the new hymnal would sing into being.
And I thought about this weekend at retreat, where the young folks sang Wade in the Water with gusto, while the out of tune piano grooved along. I thought about the enthusiasm of our kid’s singing, and how heartfelt it was.
Wade in the Water may have been a fluke in the Hymn-off. It may not be our heart song, but it did point to a new direction. We may be moving from the image of clinging to God our rock in hard times, to counting on God to stir things up. It’s holding on for dear life vs. confidence that God’s going to stir things up.
I still sing My Life Flows On, but maybe I need to recognize that this is a song from a certain time in my life. Maybe there’s a new song stirring–one of confidence in God among us, stirring up the water in our troubled world.
Cross posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/10/10/twenty-years-ago/
This week marks 20 years since Franconia c
onference voted to expel Germantown Mennonite Church from its body. Germantown won’t celebrate it, and most won’t mourn it. At this point, twenty years later, it’s just a fact. We were removed from the conference because our baptism and welcome of folk who are queer was just too much for that conference to handle.
I’ve been part of the Germantown congregation since 1996–in fact, I joined the church just a week before Franconia’s decision (I was 23). So, exclusion from the denomination is all I’ve known about church life in my adulthood.
I remember the pain of those early years after being removed. There were a lot of Sundays where sharing time was tearful or angry. Visitors would remark that we seemed to sing hymns in minor keys. But more recently, I notice the creative energy, the freedom, and the joy we have felt being together. We’ve seen the power of the local church community to care for each other, and to support our neighbors. We’ve seen the joy of watching a large group of kids grow from babies to teens, and supported them on their faith journeys. We’ve embodied the Anabaptist vision without a denomination, and developed language to help us understand our theology as outsiders to the denomination, but insiders in many other respects. We’ve welcomed queer folks into our body–and we’re learning to do more than just welcome. We’re celebrating and blessing our queer participants as people created in God’s image.
Maybe you’ll mark the 20 years outside of Franconia conference with grief. Maybe you’ll mark it with joy. I remember it as a time when I saw the church come together in protective, loving, fierce ways. While we felt the death of separation and broken relationships at the time, the death has given way to new life, new energy, and deeper love. That death marked us, and it created fertile soil for all that we are today.