The Fires of Gehenna

This is my first sermon preached as the Pastor at Frazer Mennonite Church near Malvern, PA.

Sermon based on Mark 9:38-50

In today’s unsettling text from the gospel of Mark is the second in a series of three teachings in this part of Mark.  And it’s clear in this teaching that Jesus knows his disciples were not getting it. They did not understand what he had been saying all these years that they had been travelling together.

Now, each of the gospels portray Jesus a little differently.  And the gospel of Mark is known for portraying Jesus as impatient and cranky.  This gospel is also known for portraying the disciples as especially…slow to understand.

Jesus asked the disciples what they’d been talking about on the road, and the disciples sheepishly admitted that they’d been arguing about who was the best, most important disciple.  And as soon as they say this, they had to know that this would get them into trouble with Jesus.

Was Jesus prone to eye-rolling?  To exasperated groans? I don’t know, but if he was, this would have been a reasonable time to do that.  Because these disciples were dense. They were not getting the lessons Jesus was trying to teach them.

So Jesus reminded them of the important principle:  he said, “If you want to be first, you need to serve everyone.”

Can you hear the disciples agreeing with Jesus, maybe mumbling an apology to Jesus?  

Now Jesus,  not knowing how well they were understanding the message, decided to provide an example to them.  He brought a child into their midsts, pointed to the child and said, “If you can welcome a child, it’s like you are welcoming me”.  

You might imagine more nods and affirmations from the disciples.  But then John had to open his mouth. John, the beloved disciple, just had to go and insert a defense of himself into the conversation, as if he had not even heard what Jesus had been teaching.  “Jesus, guess what we did today? We saw someone that was casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him because he was not one of us. I’m still the best disciples, right Jesus?”

And this is where Jesus got angry.  “What are you doing, John!” Don’t try to stop this!  Anyone who does good in my name will be rewarded!”

And then Jesus turned to the disciples, “What are you doing? If you put a stumbling block or difficulty before someone less powerful then you, it’s better for you to die, than hurt one of these little ones.”

Jesus was not mincing words.  

And this is where we get into the part of the story where Jesus started talking about poking out eyes, cutting off limbs, and the fires of hell. Maybe some parents are wondering if there should be a parental guidance rating on this text.

So, what is Jesus talking about here?  

In order to understand what Jesus is saying we need to understand what hell is.  Some translations of this scripture say “hell” and others more accurately read “the fires of Gehenna.” When we read this text, we’re tempted to think of this as the hell you might believe exists in the life after this.  But the fires of Gehenna was an actual place that existed at the time that Jesus walked the earth. Jesus knew about it. The disciples knew about it.

Gehenna was a trash dump just outside of Jerusalem.  And it was in perpetual state of burning. It was a place where animals went to die, a place where people threw away things they didn’t want or need any more.  

Before it was a trash dump, it was believed to be a place where child sacrifices were made to pagan gods.  It was absent of life, of kindness, of anything good. It was a desolate, evil, lonely place.

Jesus was not talking about the afterlife here.  When Jesus is talking about hell in this text, he’s talking about a real place.  A place that no one wanted to go in this life.

It was also a place where Jesus would eventually go.  Gehenna, or hell, is believed to be right next to Golgatha, the place where Jesus would be crucified and die.  The Apostles creed says of Jesus, “He descended in hell”, He went to Gehenna–a real place. A place of death and fire. A place no one ever wanted to go, in this life or the next.  

After Jesus suggested that it would be better to die than to be a diversion to the powerless, Jesus entered into a speech about hell, the fires of Gehenna.  After telling the disciples not to be a stumbling block to those weaker than them, he instructed the disciples what to do when a stumbling block, a diversion, was placed before them.  

Jesus said–If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off.  It’s better to have one hand then to have two and end up in the unquenchable fire, the fires of Gehenna.

It’s curious to me that Jesus went from telling the disciples not to put a stumbling block in front of the vulnerable, to talking about stumbling blocks put in front of the disciples.  It seems to me that Jesus was asking the disciples to put themselves in the shoes of the little ones, to understand what it might feel like to be turned away from what they seek. And Jesus seemed to be suggesting that if the vulnerable had a stumbling block placed in front of them, they ought to separate themselves from that, in order to be spared from hell.

Being away from the source of difficulty is better than being in hell, a place of human creation, and place that exists in real life, in real time, a place where nothing grows and where no one can live.  

I’ve been thinking about hell this week as I’ve heard women publicly and vulnerably disclose their assault stories.  Some of the things that women experience in trying to tell their stories are enough to send them right to hell, if they weren’t already there.  In this life, hell is a place where nothing can live, where hope cannot be found. And there are plenty of times when Christians, good Christian people, have been stumbling blocks and barriers to women who have disclosed abuse. They’ve said to those that have shared their stories, “That could not have happened” or “I don’t believe you” or “why are you telling me this now?”.  These Christians, in an effort to prove, like John, just how good they are, and how good their church is, have sent survivors into a hell of shame, of disbelief and of torment.

I have been thinking about my friend, who lived with Charlie and I for a time.  He had just come out of rehab, and needed a place to stay while he was getting his life back together.  One day when he came home from work, he begged me to stand in front of the door and not let him out. Hell was outside those doors, in the form of temptation and potential relapse.  He knew hell was a place that was lonely and isolated, and he did not want to go back there. Addiction was his stumbling block, and he needed help to stay away from the thing that would send him back to hell.   

I’ve been thinking about the hell of isolation and torment that our undocumented sisters and brothers face.  They are separated from their children, they are incarcerated, they are afraid, all because this country we live in sees them as a liability, a burden, rather than the beloved children of God they are.  

Historically humans are so good at sending each other to hell.  In this country, in our relationships, even in church. We humans have the ability to do great damage, even in an effort to be good people. 

I’ve met so many people that have been hurt by church, that have been disbelieved, that have been allowed to walk out the doors of the church feeling more alone than when they walked in, that have felt like a burden and a liability to their own faith community.  Maybe you are one of those people. Maybe you bring your own wounds with you when you walk into this space.

And Jesus told the disciples, and Jesus is telling us today, “This is not who we are. This is not who I am.  This is not what the church is supposed to be.”

In this text, Jesus instead calls the disciples to be salt.  And I don’t think Jesus is calling us to be flavor, although wouldn’t it be nice if the church could be more flavorful, more spicy even?  I think Jesus is referring to the medicinal uses for salt.

In the time of Jesus, salt was used to clean a wound, to heal the body.  In the time of Jesus, salt was used to clear out infection.

Instead of sending people to hell, to lonely places and spaces, we can  be the people that heal wounds and clear out infections.

That’s the kind of church I want for the world.  The church that heals wounds and clears up infections.  The church that welcomes brokenness and doesn’t make wholeness and purity a prerequisite for entry.  The church that sees everyone as a gift, from the very young, to the oldest member, sees everyone as beloved of God.  

That’s the kind of church God wants for the world.  It’s the kind of people Jesus asked his disciples to be.  Not the ones that are scrambling to be the best disciple, but the folks are willing to serve, the folks that commit to never put a stumbling block in front of others.  

Because this stumbling block is high stakes.  This stumbling block can send the vulnerable to hell, a place we humans have created, where there is no life, where it feels as if there is no hope and no healing.

We are disciples of Jesus, called to heal and to serve.  Let us be those people, for a world that need much more healing, and much less hell.  AMEN.

Stories of Earth, Water, Fire and Air

My first week at the new church, Frazer Mennonite Church, was the church retreat.  I was given the challenge of telling four stories at the retreat–one about earth, water, fire and air.  Here they are….

Bloom where you are planted

My grandfather had a saying, “Bloom where you are planted.”  I remember learning about this saying from him when I was in high school.  He had someone make two buttons with the saying on it–one for him and one for my mom.  They both put them in their cars, right next to their visors above, so they would see it when they were driving.  

It only occurred to me recently that my mom and grandfather must have had some sort of significant conversation about Bloom where you are planted.  And it must have meant something to both of them, if they would both post these buttons prominently.

Bloom where you are planted.  

This means that someone plants you somewhere.  You don’t always get to choose. You don’t always have the best view or the best spot.  But, according to this little saying, you have one job–BLOOM. Live. Do the thing you are made to do.

I’ve been thinking about my grandfather, my pop-pop, this week as I’ve settled into the church office.  He would have loved the flowers and the garden on the property. He is the reason I have missed getting my hands in the dirt.  He’s the reason I get excited about gardening. He’s the reason I love Jersey Corn and Jersey tomatoes.

It’s hard to imagine that this man I revered might have needed to be reminded to Bloom where he was planted.  It’s hard to imagine that my strong mama may have needed to be reminded that her job was to bloom. Because, from where I sat, I only saw their blooms.  I didn’t see the doubts and the questions. But given their need for this simple reminder, they may have wondered what God had in store for them, and what God was calling them to do and be.  

This week, as I begin to serve as your pastor, I am also inspired by this motto of my grandfathers:  Bloom where you are planted. Because this week I’ve been transplanted from one place to another. I’m excited for my roots to unravel in this Great Valley soil, and to be nourished by the waters of the rain that falls here.  After the shock of the transplant has given way and the roots dig into the soil, I look forward to the opportunity to bloom here with you all.

The Last Will and Testament of Amy Anne Yoder

When I was 15, I spent a summer on a missions trip in the most indigenous tribal nation in the world–Papua New Guinea.  PNG is made up of thousands of tribes and thousands of languages. Which meant there were a lot of communication issues.

Infrastructure was minimal.  In order for my group of teens to get to the village of Wewak, we had to fly from Australia to PNG, take a small plane  to the other side of the island, flying in some of the worst winds I’ve ever experienced in my life, take a 4 hour ride up a pot holed road in a DUMP truck full of kids and supplies, and then a 12 hour boat ride up the crocodile infested Sepic River.

It was an adventure.  And I was sure I was going to die.  I wrote out my last will and testament while I was there because between the plane ride, the boat ride and the truck ride, I thought, I’m never going to make it home.  

My group of teens had 1 big project and one small one.  The big one was to build a hospital. But in order to do that we actually have to make the blocks.  We had the concrete and sand, but we needed to buy the gravel, which we couldn’t do for the first two weeks of the trip because we had offended the local tribe and they wouldn’t sell it to us.  

So for two weeks, we made concrete blocks without gravel.  I’m sure the hospital is not currently standing.

The other side project we had was to build a swinging rope bridge across the river.  Because….crocodiles. Crocodiles were a big problem in this community. The locals did everything in the river.  Bathe, drink, and other things. And they tried to do it where the current was strong because in still water the crocs could sneak up on you.  

Those of us on the team had our own trouble in the water.  Not only did we have to bathe in the rushing currents, but we also keep shoes on in the water because there were parasitic worms that would enter through the soles of our feet, and give us a lot of intestinal problems when we got home.  

So a bridge was a good idea.  

To build this bridge there were four ropes going across the river already.  Two for the bottom part of the bridge, where we would take wooden slats and attach them to the ropes.  And the top two ropes would be to hold on for your life.

In order to attach the wood slats to the ropes, it was my job to hang out on the bottom ropes with one rope under my knees, and holding on to the other rope with my hands.  Once I was in position, I would squeeze my knees towards my hands, and the people with the wooden slats would secure the slats to the rope. And then I’d scooch out a little further, and it would continue until my arms and legs were numb.  

One day, someone from the team was supposed to be cleaning out a canoe in the rushing water below.  And he lost the canoe in the currents.

My adult leader looked at me, and said, “Go get it.”  So, I swung my legs over the ropes, and let go. I fell feet first into the Sepic river, swam against currents and finally grabbed the boat, which was, by now, filled with water.  I managed, with the help of a friends, to avoid crocodiles and bring the boat to shore.

I didn’t manage to die that year.  The last will and testament of Amy Anne Yoder was not required.  I didn’t get eaten by a crocodile. I didn’t get parasitic worms. But two weeks after we got home, the bridge fell down.  

A Bad Idea

I’m always trying to think of interesting ways to try to explain Pentecost, especially to children.  And one year, I had an especially brilliant idea. I would take a Chinese Lantern, and light it in the sanctuary, and allow it to graciously flow through the window and out into the atmosphere.  

You know what a chinese lantern is, right?  It’s a paper lantern, that requires a wick to be lit in it’s center.  The heat from the lit wick will generate enough hot air to lift it.

I had one lantern, so I didn’t have a spare to test out ahead of time.  But what could go wrong, right? This was a brilliant idea. And how amazing it would be to watch the fire go into the air, sending this fragile, flammable lantern into the sky.

I gathered the children by the open window in the sanctuary for children’s time, and set the wick alight, while carefully holding the lantern out of the window.  

There were a few lighting issues, but then the wick really got going.  And then the fire inside the paper lantern got big–fast. But I was still confident. This will definitely work. What could go wrong.

And then I heard the voice of little Henry behind me.  “Um, Pastor Amy, this seems like a really bad idea.”

And I realized in that moment that it was more than a bad idea.  It was definitely the worst idea I’d had for children’s time. EVER.

So, I let go of the paper lantern as it completely caught on fire.  And it landed–safely–on the sidewalk below. No one was injured, no property was destroyed.  But no one in that church ever felt safe near me with an open flame.

You are not Alone

I learned that my friend, Mark, died when I was in the South Hebron Hills of Palestine in 2013.  I was walking into Firing Zone 918 with a delegation from Christian Peacemaker Teams, into land that was taken by the military for training purposes, but was still the home of several thousand rural Palestinian farmers.

Mark’s friends called me in the firing zone, and told me that at his death he was surrounded by friends who loved and held him as he passed to the other side.

Mark was a theatre professor at Eastern University, and a brilliant, albeit quirky man.  Several years ago, he directed a version of the play, “My Name is Rachel Corrie,” based on Corrie’s journals.  Rachel Corrie was a student and member of the International Solidarity Movement, a group that opposed the demolition of Palestinian homes in the West Bank and Gaza strip.  She put her body in front of a bulldozer, acting as a human shield against the destruction of a Palestinian home, and was killed.

After the tears of the news of Mark’s death subsided, I lifted my head up and saw the beautiful desert landscape, I breathed in the dry desert air.  The hills of South Hebron were stunning, especially as the sun was setting. The colors of the sky were transformed from blue to bright pink, orange and yellow.  The distant sun reflected off the rocks, and they sparkled.

All along the bumpy path of the firing zone were Ebeneezers, places where people had stacked rocks to show the way.  Some were regal and solitary, and others were short and seemed to multiply along the side of the path towards the tiny village of Al Fahkeet.

I saw these markers on the way, and thought of Mark’s journey toward shalom, towards wholeness and completeness after a long period of illness.  All was being made clear for Mark now, and he could rest at his journey’s end.

Our journey in life is a journey toward shalom–towards God’s peace and wholeness.  And all along that journey we meet people that show us the way. Sometimes they are landmark people–they are those big markers on our journey.  Sometimes they are among a group of people that leave smaller markers on the path. But everyone we meet has the potential to change us.

So, it seemed appropriate (and I know it would be funny to him) that I heard the news, of Mark’s death when I was walking through a military firing zone in the West Bank of Palestine, a place that Rachel Corrie loved, a place that Mark taught me about in his art.

So, what else could I do in the Firing Zone but place my own Ebeneezer on the trail?  I left a vibrant bracelet in an olive tree, a colorful sign of hope for the next traveler on this rocky path that says, “You are not alone, friend.  You are going the right way. Sometimes the hard way is the most illuminating.”

What looked like a riot…..

Sermon Preached on 5.20.18

Based on Acts 2:1-21

Sometimes people see what they want to see.  Sometimes folks hear what they want to hear.

What is a peaceful protest to one person is a violent clash in the eyes of another.  

What is an honest expression of fears and doubts to one person is a personal failing in the eyes of another.

One person’s good boundary setting is another person’s lack of compassion.  

One person’s difficult decision can be seen by another as selfishness.  

Cursing is an offense to some, but to others is the only way to get to the sharp, painful mess they are struggling to articulate.

It’s all in who is watching and listening, and what they are trained to see and hear.

Sometimes we just see what we want to see.  Sometimes folks hear what they want to hear.

This week while the US embassy was opened in Jerusalem, thousands of Palestinians were continuing their month long “March of Return” at the border fence in Gaza.  They were marching to protest the blockade that prevents supplies from coming in and out of Gaza, and to demand to return home. Conditions in Gaza are unlivable. Most water is contaminated, food is scarce and there is no work, and no way to support a family there.  Reports began to come out saying that Palestinians in Gaza were dying in the clashes against military. But there were no clashes. There were protests on one side of a fence, while the military on the other side shot into the crowds inside Gaza–Killing at least 62, and injuring over one thousand.  

Sometimes people just see what they want to see.  What confirms their narrative, and their suspicion of others.  

Our text today is the story from the inside of the Pentecost experience.  The writer, Luke, was in the room where it happened. And he watched as the disciples gathered and prayed, and as the spirit descended on them like fire.  He listened as those in the room as they began to speak in other languages, unable to control the words coming from their mouths. He bore witness to the disciples into the room speaking words to people that they had never met before from places they had never before visited, in languages they had never studied.  

Luke testified to what he saw as someone close to the action, as someone that saw this pentecost day from the beginning, from fear in the upper room to a spark of the divine, to languages being spoken and people understanding.  

What a chaotically joyful day that must have been.  

The folks that could hear and understand were other folks that were oppressed by the Roman empire.  All of those bizarre names of people groups listed in this passage were regions under Roman rule. So the spirit, which set the hearts and heads of the disciples on fire, was speaking to other communities under occupation.  

I’m sure the Roman occupiers saw this chaotic display.  And from their perspective, this gathering would most certainly be a threat.  I’m sure that the Roman Newspapers would have reported this event as an uprising of occupied peoples from all over the empire, threatening to set the empire on fire.  Or perhaps they would describe this as a terrorist group.

People see what they want to see.  They hear what they want to hear.

And the spirit doesn’t care what it looks like.  The spirit is not concerned with optics or perception.  The spirit knows what she’s doing when she fills a space, when she rushes into the spaces where we pray, when she descends on the baptized with a call to go forth.

When Peter went out to the crowd he began to preach.  Or more, specifically he began to quote the prophet Joel, saying:

In the last days it will be, God declares,

that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,

and your children shall prophesy,

and the young shall see visions,

and the older shall dream dreams.

I will pour out my spirit on all people, regardless of status,

and they shall prophesy.

Peter was quoting scripture to explain what was happening in this chaos.  He was the Public Relations officer for the early church. There was prophesy, visioning and dreaming.  The spirit was being poured out onto the disciples, onto the old and young, giving them a vision for the future.

The children were sharing their visions of the future together, one without occupation and violence.  The young were visioning God’s reign while the old were sharing the dreams they had held since childhood.  And together, in a great cacophony of sound, the church was born. A mess of genders, races, cultures, unified by their shared experience of occupation under the Roman Empire, unified by their desire to follow Jesus, who taught them how to live eternal life, a life without fear.  

These folks, filling the streets of Jerusalem with the sounds of many languages, were most certainly a threat to the empire.  I’m sure neighbors ran for security, because there was an unlawful gathering, and people were BBQ where they shouldn’t. I’m sure some wondered if there were criminals in the crowd that were violating parole.  Maybe others wondered about the documentation of all of these foreigners gathered in the streets. Maybe the crowds of displeased that gathered to watch this Pentecost spectacle screamed, “You are in the Roman empire, speak Greek!”

Now I like a well organized worship service as much as the next person. I feel safe in it.  I feel in control. But the church did not begin in a controlled environment. And the church does not have life when we strangle it with our control, our order and our organization.  

The church was born into a mess.  It was born into a moment when every one of them in the street was seen as a threat to those in power.  It was born into complete chaos and disarray. There in that mess the church was born in fire and wind. And here in the mess of life the church continues to be reborn, renewed, and transformed.  

So let’s embrace the mess of life in the church, where the songs aren’t perfect, and the words aren’t always polished, where we sometimes arrive late with uncombed hair or mismatched socks.  Let’s embrace this messy life, and seek out more mess, the kind that challenges our notions of what it means to follows Jesus, of what it means to be a peacemaker, of what it means to see the world from a position of power.  Because there in that chaotic mess, the church is being reborn. And those birthing pains are real. The spirit groans and writhes and spins, and the church is born again.

People will see what they want to see.  They will hear what they want to hear. But we will know that in the chaotic mess of fire and wind and languages, the spirit is alive.  We know that. AMEN.

Pentecost looks like Fire

Sermon based on Acts 2: 1-21

I’m constantly amazed at the ways that the church throughout the centuries has domesticated the Bible.  

Take the Creation story.  The story of the creation of the first people on earth is one of humans made from dirt and the hand of God, and this story of awe and beauty somewhere along the line was twisted into a story about gender power and gender roles.  And, in nearly every artistic rendering we see of this story, the first humans always look well groomed with the right sized leaves being placed just in the right spot.  Where’s the vulnerability? Where’s the mess?  Where’s the dirt out of which they were created?  

Or how about Jesus’ birth:  God became a vulnerable child in an infant Jesus, a strange unlikely answer to the cry of God’s suffering people.  This story has been turned into the cute little baby Jesus, whose cheeks we want to pinch.  

Even Jesus’ stories and words–which are the most counter-cultural things you’ll read– have become a model of piety for the church, when they were anything but that.  

Jesus violent death at the hands of the empire, has been deformed into a personal Jesus, dying on the cross for you.  And don’t you forget it.  

And Jesus’ resurrection has come to represent this pristine, perfect, and spiritual act.  When it was anything but that.  It was defiance, against death, against everything that tried to kill goodness and love.  It was big and unexpected, and we still don’t know what to do with it.  

Likewise, the church has domesticated the wildness of Pentecost fire.  We have turned dangerous fire into a carefully encased candle, a gentle flame dancing daintily over the heads of awaiting disciples.  Even the lovely rendering of fire behind me is tame, although let me assure you, taking down the cross that has been up, and putting up the Pentecost fire was about as wild and harrowing an experience as I’ve had in a while.  

What happens when we domesticate the scripture?   It turns our scripture into a nice story, rather than a dangerous one, a pretty metaphor, rather than an event of utter destruction, where new things arose from the ashes.

And honestly, domesticating the story makes it more difficult to relate to.  How many of you have perfect lives?  If you raise your hand, I don’t believe you for a second.  So, why, why, why does the church keep trying to impose perfection onto this book.  

Every good and perfect thing that happened in this book comes from mess.  Jesus birth–a mess.  It didn’t happen where it was supposed to happen, and the mother was not who we imagined she should be.  Jesus was not the royal messiah the people hoped for, he didn’t deliver the message they wanted, he didn’t live and he certainly didn’t die the way they hoped.  

The Pentecost story is read as if the tornado and flames in the room is tame and fanciful, like something magical and enchanting from a Harry Potter book.  But, pentecost was anything but that.  

Folks, the church was born amidst terrifying wind and fire that filled a room.  It was not organized and pretty, as we also see documented in art.  It was a tremendous mess that took the disciples breath away.  And as a result of this weather event in a room–the disciples were compelled to leave the fear behind, the fear that brought them into that room to hide.  After the fire and wind, the fear was gone, and they couldn’t help but be in the streets.  

Fire and wind are a dangerous mix.  Wind causes the fire to spread.  Wind makes the fire hot.  And when fire comes, it destroys everything.  Some of you who have experienced the power of fire know this all too well.  Fire is traumatic, life threatening.  

Beyonce’s new album came out a few weeks ago, and it it one of the most incredible pieces of musical art I’ve ever seen or heard.  It documents a marital crisis between her and her husband.  She lets him have it about his infidelity and lies.  With her words, burns everything in her relationship down, and says, “I’m not sorry.”  But at some point on her journey in this  album, she sees the seeds of something beautiful that still exists between the two of them, and says, “If we are going to heal, let it be glorious.”  And from the ashes, these two people, begin again.  She and her partner had to burn everything down to see what was left.  Their relationship had to burn to the ground so they could see what was left.

This happens in forest fires too.  As terrifying as they are, they serve an important purpose.  They kill off diseased trees and insects, and they allow those smaller groundcovers to grow.  Those ground covers are what hold the soil in place.  When the trees get too big, the other plants are denied sunlight.  

And, when the forest fire dies, it leaves strong tree seeds to grow in the earth, in a soil nurtured by the ash from the fire.

Today I’m thinking about Pentecost in the wildest way possible–On that day when the wind and fire entered that room, everything burned away.  And what was left were seeds.  

And those seeds were the disciples, and their passion to tell the story of Jesus, who showed them the way to live, and in his death and resurrection, showed them the way to live and die without fear. These disciples–after this weather event in the upper room where they waited fearfully–they were sent to all parts of the world.  We know some of the disciples traveled all around the world–to Spain, Africa, Italy and elsewhere–to tell the story of Jesus.  They did not have a book.  They didn’t have a theological perspective.  They had the stories and their experience.  

Today I pray for fire.  Not an actual fire to consume this building, but a fire to burn away all the things that have been created and called church.  I want to burn away all the bad theology that has been used to hurt, exclude and keep people away from God.  I want a fire that will burn away all the extraneous, distracting things that cover up what is what is truly the gospel.

I want all of that to burn away, so that we can see what’s left.  What is left are the seeds that grow strong in the rich soil of what was.  What is left is a story that is radical again, that–under all the theology has been layered on top of the creation story, Jesus’ birth, death and resurrection stories–under all of that is a radical, counter cultural, message that we need to hear again.  Under all those layers of cultural normativity we’ve put on the biblical story is a story of God reaching out to us, of God wanting relationship with us, and wanting us to love and care for each other.  

So maybe this sounds more angry than I mean it to, but let’s just let this whole thing burn down.  Let’s let this system of Christianity we’ve inherited be burned by the intense fire of God’s love, and by God’s original intentions for us.  Let it burn.  Let’s let go of all those things that we’ve inherited that have nothing to do with the gospel.  And let’s see what’s left.  

And then let’s let what’s left be blown about by the great wind that is the holy spirit.  Because, this gift we’ve been given is not ours to hold onto so tightly, it’s not ours to tame or control or even define.  It is God’s gift to us.

AMEN.

Resilience in a Cow Pasture

Talk at Eastern Mennonite Seminary, January 19, 2016

I’m the pastor of Germantown Mennonite Church in Philadelphia, the oldest Mennonite congregation in the Western Hemisphere.  It is an historically distinguished congregation in many ways.  It is the place where the first protest against slavery was written in 1683–100 years before the Quakers, and 175 years before the emancipation proclamation.  

We are also distinguished in that we were removed from both the General Conference and the Mennonite Conference, prior to their becoming the Mennonite Church USA in 2002.  We were removed from the Mennonite Conference in 1997 for welcoming queer folks into baptism and membership, and we were removed from the General Conference in 2002 for ordaining a gay man for his work as a chaplain.  

So, while we call ourselves Mennonite, have solidly Anabaptist beliefs and practices, we are now an independent Mennonite congregation.  Which, in our Anabaptist communal theology, feels pretty ridiculous.

When I began preparing for this conversation and read the intentions and hopes of this session, I have to admit that I began to feel a little uncomfortable.  Am I being asked to talk about how I’m ok after the experiences of ongoing exclusion from the denomination?  It’s a little bit like coming back to a lover that has wronged me and saying, “It’s ok; I’m fine.  Don’t worry about that thing that happened in our past.”  

But I want to talk about what what resilience looks like in exile, so I’m going to do that.  I am very aware that there is a lot of unfinished business between Germantown Mennonite and the denomination.  And while it hangs over this conversation, my purpose here is not to foster reconciliation, but to talk about resilience, so that’s what I’m going to do.

I often relate being the Pastor of Germantown Mennonite church as being like Hester Prynne from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic novel, The Scarlet Letter.  Hester was forced to wear a scarlet A on her chest, a constant reminder to everyone that she was an adulteress.  

I’m very aware of my scarlet GMC–that mark that reminds me of the impact of this congregation on my life, but also a mark that reminds people of my status and associations.

For me personally, let me just say–and not to be too dramatic about it–but this congregation has saved me.  I would not be in Church, and I would not be a follower of Jesus,  if it wasn’t for the folks at this church that gave me a safe place to be angry and broken.  I arrived at Germantown when I was 22.  My mother had just died of cancer, and if one more Christian told me that if she had more faith she’d still be alive, or that God needed another angel, I was going to lose my mind.  

This congregation was good at broken, and they were good at lament, so I felt at home there.  It was the first time I’d ever been in a church where I didn’t feel like I had to be perfect or together.  I could come in angry, or sad, or however I was feeling and it was ok.  

This congregation–particularly the gay men of the church–showed me what God’s love looks and feels like.  I grew up in a church that preached God’s wrath and anger exclusively.  I couldn’t not even conceive of love and grace.  These folks at GMC modeled the art of being broken, and walked through the valley of the shadow of death me me.  

And later, they said to me, “Why aren’t you in seminary?”  “You are called–when are you going to say yes to God?”  So, when the spiritual mentors at the church told me I should pursue ministry, I began to ask these questions of God, and was surprised–and terrified–when the words of my faith community and the words of the spirit were all saying yes.  

I spent eleven years in this congregation before going to seminary.  And, after three years of seminary Germantown Mennonite knew me so well, and yet they called me as their pastor anyway.  

That’s how the congregation has impacted me personally.  The congregation’s expansive love of Jesus, and trust in the spirit has show me another way.  

But here’s where the resilience in ministry comes in:  the rest of the world does not look at Germantown Mennonite Church the way I do.  The rest of the world often sees that scarlet letter burning on my chest, and they make judgement about me and this community I love.  

As the pastor of Germantown Mennonite church, I’ve received non-specific death threats.  I’ve gotten hate mail, or “instructive” mail on how I should teach my congregation the correct way to read the Bible.  We were even threatened by Westboro Baptist back in the day.  

Those things don’t bother nearly as much as the subtle signals I get from other Mennonites that let me know that I am a pariah–that my congregation is a pariah.

Like the time I was invited to speak at a youth event, then dis-invited a few weeks later, because “We just aren’t ready for you yet–you understand though.  Right, Amy?”

Or the time that I sat in as an observer on a contentious denominational meeting where the Executive Minister was speaking, and no one talked to me or sat within 10 feet of me.  

Or that time that my congregation ordained me and some friends didn’t attend because they were worried that their bishop might find out.  

Or when folks hear me talk about the power of scripture to transform and are genuinely surprised that I read the bible.  

I’m very aware that depending on the event I attend in the Mennonite world, it may be hard for people to associate with me, to speak with me directly, to engage me in conversation.  Because I represent something.  I represent queerness even though I am not queer.  I represent controversy, even though I don’t feel or look very controversial.  I represent the thing that people fear in this denomination–exile and brokenness.  

It’s an odd place to be.  Because I didn’t come to the congregation as an attender in 1996 because I had a particular position on sexuality.  I came because I was looking for Jesus, and I found him in this queer, marginal Mennonite church in Philadelphia.  

It’s an odd place to be because I think I’m a pretty normal person.  Boring even.  I’m a middle aged white lady married to a middle aged white guy.  We have two kids, we live in a non-descript neighborhood.  I drive a minivan, for goodness sakes.  I don’t look in the mirror and think–pariah.  I usually look in the mirror and wonder what scarf will look nice with my boring outfit.  

I’m a boring, middle aged pastor, shepherding a controversial church.  And yet, I feel called to continue to engage the denomination–this denomination that has exiled me and my congregation.  But I do not engage as a victim, because Jesus didn’t do that, because Germantown Mennonite does not live like that, and neither do I.  

I feel called to engage the denomination because I am Anabaptist and so are you–and as an Anabaptist I understand that discipleship is not a solitary journey.  I also know that while we disagree on this little thing, we agree on so much more.  It is why I show up time after time.

The story that I relate to most from the scripture in this regard is the story of the Geresene Demoniac.  The demoniac was healed by Jesus, which was terrifying to the townsfolk.  This former demoniac, now clothed and in his right mind, said to Jesus, “let me go with you!”  But, Jesus said, “No–go back to your community and tell them what I’ve done for you.”  

I don’t tell you these things to garner sympathy or action.  Not at all.  I’m called to this place, I feel good about the work I do, I feel the spirit at work. I tell you these things because somewhere in my story, I bet you can relate to the feelings of isolation and outsider-ness.  Because even if I wasn’t the pastor of this infamous congregation, I’d still feel like an outsider in some ways.  It’s the strange side effect of this role to which we are called.  As pastors, we automatically have a strange apart-ness in our congregations.

The question posed today is how am I sustained in a spiritual desert.  But really, I think the better question for me is how am I sustained in a spiritual cow pasture.  Because I live and work in a rich and beautiful community.  I just never know when I’m going to step into shit with the wider Mennonite world.  

So, here’s how I try to manage the in the cow pastures of ministry in and around my context.  I’ve broken this up into four categories:  

1–Spiritual Practices.  The two most important spiritual practices I try to cultivate are–silence and sabbath.  I’m terrible at both of them, but I’m somehow gratified to know it’s a practice, and not a perfection I’m working on.  It gives me some hope to keep at them.  

I understand silence as the practice of stilling my mind. of coming back to myself and of reconnecting what’s happening in my head to how my body is experiencing it.  I’ve practiced silence in many different ways over the years.  

I’ve done a lot of yoga as a way to practice silence.  When I first started practicing yoga, my instructor talked about taking up the practice as a way to still her monkey mind.  That idea resonated with me.  My brain goes a mile a minute.  I make lists in my head constantly.  I make lists of lists I need to make.  Yoga’s focus is on breath.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Breathe in and move your body to this pose.  Breathe out, and move your body again.  Flow through the breath.  Focus on the breath.  

There has been something really wonderful about having someone guide my breath, and guide me into silence.  All I have to do is breathe in and out when my instructor says so.  I’ve joked that yoga is the only place where I let someone else tell me what to do.

The yoga practice has given way to simpler, more affordable ways to still the monkey mind.  One my days off I like to walk in Fairmount Park, the most incredible park system in the country.  I try to walk to for several miles on my day off.  I walk in the woods, clear my head, and focus on breathing,  in and out.  

Monday is my day off, my sabbath, and I try really really hard not to do anything work related.  I don’t respond to emails, texts or calls on Mondays.  Sometimes emergencies happen, and that’s ok.  Sometimes people don’t get that I’m off, and I have to give a firm, “We’ll talk tomorrow” text or phone call.  But generally, I try to keep Mondays for quiet.  

2–This is not a spiritual discipline per se, but it is something I try to practice as much as possible–I practice opportunities to be human.  

Now maybe that sounds like a strange one to you.  Because obviously, pastors are human.  We all know well our own personal failings.  But the problem is not our humanity, but the pedestal we are put on by others.  

To go from being just Amy to having people call me Pastor Amy was a difficult transition.  There’s some heaviness associated with that title, and as shepherd of the flock you don’t want to let any one down.  I have found myself dealing with urges to present myself as more pious and godly than I am or ever could be.  

And I really try to resist that.  I’m a human in a role of leadership in the church.  But I am not perfect.  My family reminds me of the often.  As do my friends.  And even my congregation reminds me.  And I’m delighted to have people in my life that remind me that I am human.  It’s important that we practice that as much as possible, that we relish in our failures as a sign that God is still at work on us.  

3–As often as possible, I try to worship and participate in unfamiliar contexts.  For Jewish High holy days, I visit Rabbi Linda’s synagogue.  On the Saturday before Easter, I slip into the Easter Vigil service at my neighborhood Episcopal church–they  have an incredible choir and the incense is thick, and the worship is worthy of a celebration of resurrection.  On Christmas day, when most Mennonites do not have worship services, I slip into my friend’s small Lutheran church, and allow someone else to tell me the story in a way I’ve never heard it before.  

In this same vein, I participate in a weekly interfaith lectionary text study group with other clergy.  We read the scriptures we’ll all be working on for the next Sunday, and share our observations.  Rabbi Adam always brings a profound insight to us about Jesus, or Isaiah or the Psalm.  The ways that other traditions read our shared scripture keeps the scripture fresh and alive.  Hearing my Lutheran, Presbyterian, Methodist and Episcopalian friends’ read on the stories with their own theological stand serves to deepen my won understandings.  And, not only that, these folks have become my dear friends and colleagues in pastoral and social justice ministry.  They keep me sane.  

4–A final word on resilience comes from my twelve year old daughter, Reba.  I asked her a few weeks ago how she thought I was able to do this job and not lose my mind, or my soul.  She immediately had the answer in the form of a recent pop song from the artist, Sia.  She said, “Mom, you’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart.”  Thick skin, elastic heart.  I like that.  And I think that’s a pretty amazing compliment from a 12 year old.  

Ultimately, that’s what we need in this work.  I can’t take every criticism or failing to heart, because the toxicity might just destroy me.

And at the same time, we have to have an open heart for the work, our community, and the congregation we serve.  We have to, or we will not survive.

Your context does not have to be nearly as complicated as mine to live and work in a desert or a cow pasture.  We all work in places that have great potential for toxicity.  But, in all those places are people of hope, walks where we come back to ourselves and to God, and people that keep our feet on the ground.  May you cultivate those people, places and experiences in your work and ministry–in deserts or cow pastures.

God’s Not Fair

Sermon preached on September 21, 2014 at Germantown Mennonite church.  Based on Matthew 20:1-16

My family will tell you–when I drive I become the finger wagging educator  for all the clueless drivers around me.  I will remind folks about the meaning of the words “yield” vs. “stop”; I will tell people to get off their phones and pay attention to the road; but most importantly, I’ll tell people the proper way to merge into traffic.

It is admittedly a pet peeve of mine.  We should all be fair.  We should all take turns.  It’s a basic rule we learned in kindergarten, isn’t it?  Take turns.  Be fair.  It’s so simple.

This week, while driving in some backed up traffic on the expressway, I was merging–inch by inch–into the lane beside me, because my lane was ending.  And all the cars in front of me were taking turns.  I put my signal on, and inched to the right.  And the car beside me made no move to let me in.  So, I inched to the right a little more, this time, looking at the driver beside me, prepared to give a wave and a smile.  But the driver was staring straight ahead and I knew he had no intention of letting me in.

So I scooched over one more time, hoping this guy would be fair, follow the rules, and let me in.  But then I realized, this guy is being a huge jerk, so I’ll let him go ahead and get that one car length ahead of him, if that would make him feel better.

And then something amazing happened.  The guy in front of me and the non-merging car beside me rolled down his window and waved me in front of him.  He must have seen me giving up on merging, and decided to send a message of fairness.

I was thrilled–I blew kisses at the kind driver in front of me, I waved.  I perked right up.  All was fair again.

And then I had this moment of–”Who cares.”  I am ahead of the guy that wouldn’t play fair.  But it’s traffic.  And he’ll get ahead of me, and then I’ll get ahead of him, and then we’ll both end up where we need to go.  Why am I so concerned about fairness?

John Dominic Crossan defines parables as the opposite of myths.  Myths are stories that we live by; stories that tell us about ourselves and what we value.  Parables, on the other hand, are designed to undercut those myths.  And, since parables tell us about what the reign of God will be like, it seems to be Jesus’ way of saying, “The reign of God will not look the way you think it should.  It’s going to look like this other thing instead.”

In today’s parable, God is commonly understood as the landowner–since this is the reign of God, or the kingdom of God.  And that works here, except that I can’t get past that feeling that God’s just not fair.  If I was working in the vineyard for a whole day, I’d want my wages to be commensurate.  If I worked only a few hours, I’d fully expect to make less than others who were there longer.

God, the wealthy landowner in this story, is not fair.

Over the last century, the unions have been formed to help the wealthy landowners of our nation treat workers fairly.  We’ve fought for equal pay for women and men, for fair treatment for workers.  We’ve lobbied for a living wage for restaurant workers and teachers.

We are concerned with fairness.  And it seems–in this text–that God is not.  And if I’m being really honest with myself and with you, that makes me really angry.

I want God to treat me the way that I believe I should be treated, to give me what I deserve, to prefer me when I’ve worked extra hard.  And, according to this upside-down parable, God’s not going to be what I want God to be; God’s not going to act the way I want God to act.

In our parable today, God the wealthy landowner, goes out to find workers for his land.  Now, this would have been a familiar scene, and a part of life in the time of Jesus.  If you get there early, you get in the line first, but if you get there late, you may not get any work.  Folks were typically paid one denari, the equivalent of “our daily bread.”  It was enough to eat for a day.  So if you didn’t get work, you didn’t eat.

Who knows why folks got to the work spot late, but if they did, they waited all day in the hot sun for just the chance for work.  They were no less hungry than that folks that were working in the vineyard.  In fact, they were probably more anxious because they were standing in the hot sun, praying for work that may not come, anxious to have some security–to know that their daily bread would be provided.

God the wealthy landowner, is not fair.  But, maybe that’s ok.  Perhaps it’s ok that I don’t get all that I deserve.  It’s better that God’s love and grace flow to all.

And by all, that means even the people that I don’t like.  It means the people that don’t work as hard as I think I do.  It means the folks that have treated us badly, have hurt us, misunderstood us, and talked trash about us.  It means the homophobes, the racists, the xenophobes, the people that don’t recycle, don’t believe in climate change or evolution.  It’s all those people that we’d rather not hang out with if given the chance. God is generous to all “those people” too.

In our desire for fairness, we can become smug with things go our way (like when I was in the traffic), or become blind to the things that go too much in our favor (as we can do with our white privilege).  But when things aren’t fair according to our standards, well oh Lord, people are going to hear about it.

The landowner addresses the outrage of the workers by saying, “Are you envious because I am generous?”  A literal translation of this from greek is, “Is your eye evil because I am good?”  Do you mean people harm because I am good?  This literal translation cuts–do I have such a hard time handling God’s goodness and generosity that I think harmful thoughts towards others?  Am I so concerned with fairness, that I become angry when things don’t go according to my playbook on fairness?

One of the most difficult part of parenting is that I have strong urges toward fairness, but find it impossible, because each child is different, each child brings their own uniqueness, their own anxieties and skills.  To treat each child the same would be unfair.  Although that can be pretty difficult to explain in the heat of the moment.

There’s a big difference between fairness and justice.  Fairness in today’s parable means that everyone gets a decent hourly wage.  But justice in this story means that everyone gets their daily bread, that no one goes hungry, that all are fed, regardless of how much they can work, regardless of their economic status, their race, gender, sexual orientation.  Regardless of how long they’ve been in this country, and whether they have proper paperwork.

God does not care one bit about our sense of fairness, but God cares deeply about justice.

Fairness is about us, according to our own sensibilities; but justice is beyond ourselves, our own needs and ideals about what is fair.  Justice has nothing to do with how people merge into traffic, and everything to do with daily bread, with love and grace.

There is a place for fairness, but in the reign of God, we put that aside, and take our cues from a God that gives of God’s self to everyone, no matter who they are or where they come from, no matter how much or how little they have worked, and no matter how concerned we may be about the fairness of it.  AMEN.

God in Darkness

This sermon is offered with deep appreciation for Barbara Brown Taylor’s newest book,

Learning to Walk in the Dark.

Sermon based on Genesis 28:10-19a.

Preached on July 20, 2014 at Germantown Mennonite Church

 When I was a kid, I was really afraid of the dark.  My bedroom was a remodeled attic in my family’s small bungalow house, and at night I’d watch the shadows move from one end of the wall to another, whenever a car went by on the street where we lived.  After each car would go by, the room would return to complete darkness, and I would be left to wonder what was lurking in the now unseen shadows.

My dad, who’s parents passed on frugal post depression values, could never understand why I kept all the lights on in my room all the time, even if I wasn’t there.  It would infuriate him that he’d be paying for unneeded electricity in his house.  To cure me of this, my punishment would be that he would take the away the light bulb in the overhead light in my room.  So, at night, I’d scurry up the stairs to my room, and hope that I wouldn’t encounter anything frightening in the darkness before I could find the little lamp on my desk.

In the last few weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time outdoors–way more than I usually spend.  I went camping, and braved the rain, the heat and humidity of summer in the Smoky Mountains.  I spent a week in the Appalachian Mountains of Western Pennsylvania, talking to middle schoolers about following in the way of Jesus.

In both places, I intentionally did not bring a flashlight, even though common sense would suggest that would be wise.  On the camping trip I used the light of my iphone only when I used the bathroom at night because, well I don’t think I need to spell that out for you.  But otherwise I tried as much as possible to only rely on the light of the moon and stars and the neighboring camp fires.

It’s hard for this city girl to do that.  I don’t like the dark.  If my porch light is out or the street light isn’t working, I feel like things are not right in the world.  I feel better knowing what’s going on in the darkness.  And, I like that I have power to remediate the darkness, to control it with a flood of light.

But, away from technology and electricity, all that’s there is to guide is the light of the moon and stars.  And sometimes not even that.

This is an issue for me on a personal, human level, but this need for light is an issue for many of us on a spiritual level.  Some of our songs this morning have been about light–longing for light, desiring that God break our spiritual darkness with God’s glorious light.

Meanwhile we equate anything dark with those things that scare us–ignorance, sin, evil, depression, fear, and death.  We tend to avoid the dark at all cost, with our spiritual flashlights screaming out that God is in the light and calling for God to shine light into the darkness of our lives.

Preacher and author Barbara Brown Taylor, describes this intense need to be in the light of God as “Full Solar Spirituality”–this need to focus on staying in the light of God around the clock without end.  .

Our scriptures, in many ways, contribute to this inclination towards Full Solar Spirituality.  We hear in scripture:

“The light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not overcome it”

“God is light and in God there is no darkness”

“Open their eyes that they will turn from darkness to light”

“I am the light of the world–whoever follows me will not walk in darkness.”

All these things are true–of course–but they leave us with the illusion that God is only in the light, and that being in darkness is a bad, bad thing.

But it’s in the Biblical stories that we find God in the darkness.  And Jacob is one of those characters in Genesis that sees quite a bit of darkness.  In the story we heard today, Jacob had just run from his dysfunctional family, where he had taken his brother’s birthright away with his mother’s help, while his father was on his death bed.

Jacob ran into the darkness, carrying nothing with him. He stopped at Beer-Sheba in what is now the Negev desert, and laid on the ground in the darkness using a rock for a pillow.   And there, in the darkness, Jacob was promised God’s presence in the form of a dream.  God said, “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land.”

Later in life, Jacob encountered God in the dark at another time and place.  He was preparing to meet his brother after a long period of silence and distance between them.  Jacob was nervous about this encounter with Esau, and was not sure if his brother would be angry with him, or would try to kill him.  So, Jacob went away from his family, and went into the darkness alone.  And there he wrestled all night with God.

In both of these stories of Jacob’s experience with darkness, he met God.  And in both of these stories he marked the place where he met God with a rock formation–an ebeneezer–to mark those places he had seen the face of God and lived.

So many times, darkness represents those things we don’t know or can’t control.  But, it is also a place where God dwells.  It is also a place where God is seen and known, where God resides and abides, where God speaks and reveals God’s self to us.

So many times, we think that the darkness is terrifying; that nothing good can happen in the dark.  But, we know very well that some of the most beautiful and intimate things in our lives happen in the dark.  And some of the most horrible, terrifying things have happened in the light.

Often we think that exposing something to the light is the most important thing, but in the darkness, we can use our other senses to touch, to listen, to smell, to hear.  In the darkness, we gain a new appreciation for what is there because we are forced to understand it differently.

If there was only light, we’d miss those small places of light in the distant sky; we’d lose the coolness that comes with night, the sounds of the birds and secadas that sing only in the dark.  We’d miss fireflies.

If there was only light, it would be difficult to sleep.  We would not know when to rest.  We would not know the time of day and our circadian rhythms would be completely off.

Taylor recommends thinking about encountering God in terms of lunar spirituality, where the divine light from God waxes and wanes with the seasons of our lives.  Every night, when we go outside the moon and stars never look quite the same.  Sometimes there is more light than other times.  But always, God is there in our darkness.  Perhaps lunar spirituality might be at truer metaphor for God’s presence than the solar spirituality.

The great hope of the Christian message is not that God will save us from the dark.  The hope is that God is in the dark.  We don’t need to be saved from the dark, because God is already there with us.

That is a word of great hope to me this week, because there seems to be a lot of darkness in the world.

• There is a mounting death toll in Gaza, and the assault on this region has moved from air strikes to ground attacks.
• A passenger plane is shot down at 33,000 feet over Ukraine.
• Thousands of refugee children are being denied exile into this country.

My response to bad news after bad news has been righteous, justified anger.  And instinctively a desire for God to shine light into the situation.  But, perhaps what is needed is to be in the dark.  To sit in our anger and fury, without answers.  To lay in the darkness, and notice the small shafts of distant light.  To wrestle with God in the darkness. Or to march in the darkness together, reclaiming it, changing how we see it, and vowing to get comfortable with it.

It is in our darkness that we experience God in new ways.  It is in our darkness that God shows us a different side of God’s self, a side we couldn’t see in the light.  It is in our darkness that hope is born.

Blessed be our God, who is present in the darkness and the light.  AMEN.

My Scarlet Letters

Read as part of a storytelling evening at the William Way Center, Philadelphia, PA on March 20, 2014. This is a simplified version of events as I was telling it to a largely un-churched audience.

Hester Prynne and I have something in common. Hester, the main character of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic novel, The Scarlet Letter, was forced to wear a scarlet A on her chest, a sign of her sins and of her tarnished reputation. I wear a scarlet GMC, a sign of my association with Germantown Mennonite church, the congregation I began attending in 1996, and have been pastoring since 2010.

When I started attending GMC, the congregation was in the process of being removed from the denomination, because they welcomed queer folks into membership. The end of that relationship was imminent, but people were still pretty hopeful that allies in the denomination would stand up against the conservative wing of the church. I didn’t know much about the struggle when I started attending the church—and if I’m really honest with myself—I didn’t care. What I cared about was that I was finally in a safe space to be angry, to ask questions, and to cry. I didn’t have to worry about judgment from the congregation when I said that God was really pissing me off–because God was pissing them off too.

A year after I arrived, the congregation was indeed removed from the denomination. Denominational leaders came to the meetinghouse to share the official news with us. And because after a year with them, I was so connected to the folks to the congregation, I could not stay away from this meeting. My friends—gay and straight—were hurting, and would be devastated by this news. I had to be there with them.

I went to this meeting, and cried tears of anger with the congregation as we heard the news. I watched with disbelief as Ken, a gay man in the congregation, insisted that these church leaders finish what they started, and walk him out of the church. If the denomination was removing this congregation from fellowship, they would have to show us what it meant. They would need to understand for themselves what they were doing to the body of Christ.

After we heard the news, and the conference ministers left, we sat together, then did what Mennonites do—we sang.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging
If love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

I never would have imagined that night as a 23 year old woman, sitting in that room, singing and crying with this congregation, that I would end up in seminary, called to pastoral ministry.

But it was the folks, and especially the gay men, from the congregation that said to me, many times, “Why aren’t you in seminary?” and “You know you are called, right?” They recognized in me the call to the ministry that I couldn’t—or rather didn’t want to—see. It was the people of GMC that gave me my scarlet letters, sent me off to seminary, and told me to wear them with pride.

When I entered seminary, it didn’t occur to me that it would be that difficult to find a job in the denomination. Even though Germantown was no longer a member of the Mennonite Church, we still considered ourselves Mennonite–being the oldest Mennonite church in the western hemisphere, we are the Mother Church after all. But others within the denomination began to name for me the difficulty I would experience. One pastor I met said to me blatantly, “How in the hell do you ever expect to get a job in the Mennonite church with GMC on your resume?”

I could feel the scarlet GMC burning on my chest for the first time. I knew there was truth in what he said. My spirit was crushed. Could I get a job?

It was tempting for me to try to cover up the scarlet GMC, to hide where I came from, to downplay the people that nurtured me to new faith. But I just couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hide where I’d come from, even though I was advised by folks in the denomination to do so. This congregation was my community, my family, and because of the bonds we had and the gift they were to me, I couldn’t hide my letters.

Wearing my letters comes at a cost. Before interviewing at Germantown, I interviewed for a job at a little Mennonite church just outside of Philadelphia. And the main reason I didn’t get it is because they were worried I’d bring the queers with me. If they couldn’t handle the scarlet GMC, they were not ready for me to be their pastor.

By God’s grace I was called to be the pastor at Germantown Mennonite. I pastor at one of the few Mennonite congregations that can, at this point, handle my scarlet letters and the congregation that gave me the scarlet letters.

There is a cost to being an ally. There is a cost to associating with a congregation that had the audacity to baptize and welcome queer folks into membership. It has limited my opportunities. It has been the source of some awkward conversations with search committees.

But, when I look at what my friends, Randy and John, have dealt with in their lives—coming out while they were pastors, losing their credentials, being publicly shamed and condemned; when I look at my two gay interns, Patrick and Doran, who are clearly called to work in the church but who have so few opportunities; or Russ and Charlie and Brittany who have prayed for a safe place to be out and Christian– I think a few awkward conversations, and some limited opportunities are well worth it. It is the least I can do, to say thank you.

This scarlet GMC, the label I’ve been given as an ally, comes at a cost. But, my friends, the benefit far outweighs the cost. The gift I’ve been given at Germantown Mennonite has saved me, given me hope, and has shown me the way of Jesus, a way I couldn’t see anywhere else.

Like Hester Prynne, I lovingly embroider my scarlet letters, embellish them with the beauty that has been shared with me in my congregation. I could choose, like the minister in the Scarlet Letter—Arthur Dimmsdale—to be silent about my associations. But, we know what happened to Dimmsdale. That kind of denial and silence will only result in death.

Dr. King and Education

I was privileged to speak at a neighborhood interfaith service today, reflecting on the work of Dr. King and education.  

A few weeks ago, I was in a meeting where someone declared that neighborhood schools were dead, and we had lost the fight for public education.  It took me by surprise, because while I know the school district I suffering, I am not seeing death.

My kids are students in the Philadelphia school district–I have a 4th grader attending just down the street at Henry, and a 7th grader who attended Henry, but is now at a magnet school downtown.  My kids are proud of the schools they have attended, and so am I.  The neighborhood school has taught me the power of community and raising kids in a village.  From the teachers who have been committed to teaching my kids creatively, to the amazing school counselors who have helped my kids through some difficult times, to the parents who have stood with me in front of the school district offices, reminded me to write another letter ot the governor, and had faith in public schools, when I was ready to wrap it up and move to the suburbs.

This does not sound like the death of neighborhood schools to me.  This sounds like while the schools are troubled with lack of funding, there are plenty of signs of hope and life.

In the last eight years, I’ve seen  powerful life-giving moments at Henry school, moments of deep transformation.

In November 2008, the day after President Barack Obama was elected, my then six year old son and I walked into the upper yard, into a scene of chaotic jubilation.  Every last kid was wearing some sort of Barack Obama hat, t-shirt or button.  Some of the African American boys were wearing suits–they wanted to look like the man who would be their new president.

My son was delighted.  He took my hand, beaming with pride, and said, “My friends finally have a president that looks like them.”

This wouldn’t have happened in just any school.  But it happened right here in the the Henry school yard, in the middle of this racially diverse neighborhood.  Here my children learned to value diversity, to value the gifts that different perspectives offer.  Here they learned about the dream that Dr. Martin Luther King had decades ago. Here they began to live the dream that “one day little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

One of my favorite days of the school year is the day that the Kindergarten starts at Henry school.  It’s usually a few weeks after the regular school year starts.  That day, the upper yard at Henry is full of anxious parents, squirrely five year olds, along with teachers and the parents and kids from all the other grades.  It’s an exciting morning.  And what does the community do at Henry?  They have the kids line the hallways to welcome the kindergarteners into the school, to let them know they are loved.

Neighborhood schools are not dead.  It’s not what I’m seeing.  While I know very well that school district is suffering, I also know that children of every race, class, and religion walk into the the school every day, and they learn together, they learn from each other.  And they are living out the dream of Dr. King.

Here’s another reason I know that neighborhood schools are not dead.  And it’s kind of a big reasons for Christians.  As a Christian, I believe in the resurrection.  I believe that just when people think a thing is dead and they give up and walk away, surprise!  Here comes the new life!  Here comes something better than ever was expected.

And it’s not just a Christian belief–this is something prophets of Judaism, Christianity and Islam said over and over again.  The desert will bloom, God will make a path in the wilderness.

Public school are not dead in Philadelphia.  The dream of Dr. King is not wishful thinking.  It can happen.  It is happening.  It will happen.  But we need to keep working for that dream, keep fighting to see that public school funding continues and increases.  We cannot give up.  Let’s keep praying towards that dream of Dr. King.  Let’s keep advocating to our government officials that the dreams of our ancestors are fulfilled.  Let’s keep supporting and loving our public school children, teachers and principals.  Because God is doing a new thing, resurrection is happening right in front of us, and new life is springing forth.