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.

Things Fall Apart

A sermon based on Isaiah 65:17-25; Luke 21:5-19

Last week, I preached on the words of the prophet Haggai. “Build the temple,” said the prophet. “The latter splendor of this house shall be greater than the former, says the Lord of hosts; and in this place I will give prosperity, says the lord of hosts.”

We build the church because it’s an important witness in a world that finds what we do increasingly irrelevant. We build together, in an act of hope and courage.

And this week we hear very different words from Jesus about the temple. Jesus said, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”

Things will fall apart. Bad things are going to happen. You will be arrested, persecuted, brought before kings and rulers, tried, punished, betrayed and put to death.

Jesus and Haggai were talking about the same temple, but at very different times in history. Haggai was encouraging people to build the temple after they had returned from Babylonian enslavement about 550 years before Jesus. The people rebuilt the destroyed temple; they restored their hope in community and in their relationship to God.
And Jesus was predicting–550 years later–that the temple would fall, that all the work of the Israelites following their captivity will be destroyed again.

The gospel of Luke was written at about the same time as the temple had been destroyed. The temple was destroyed about 40 years after Jesus was put to death, and the book of Luke was written at about the same time as the destruction of the temple. The words of Jesus were written down in this gospel at a time when Jesus’ predictions had just come to pass, when they were living in the the destruction to which Jesus spoke.

Jesus was talking about the temple destruction, but considering that this story was so close to Jesus’ life story, he’s also referring to his own destruction. He’s predicting how his own death will be. Arrested, persecuted, brought to trial before rulers….

And yet, all of this–Jesus said–would be an opportunity to testify. All of the persecution, trials and destruction will be an opportunity to speak the good news of God’s reign among us.

Persecution, destruction and trials–all opportunities to speak of God’s reign. This doesn’t sit well with me. I’m disturbed that Jesus suggests that the hard times are the opportunity to testify, that it may be a time of clarity to see God at work.

I doubt that churches that are closing their doors would see their demise as an opportunity to testify. I doubt that when we think about the possibility of our own death, that we find it easy to think about testifying to God’s love and grace.

Instead we see our wealth as a sign of good news. We see our church’s growth as as sign of success. We see our health as a sign of God blessing us and saving us.

And that doesn’t sit well with me either.

When my family prays over our dinner meal, we typically say something like, “Lord, we thank you for this food, and for our many blessings.” When we pray, we thank God, for what we have been given. But I have often wondered what people who don’t have my many blessings pray at their dinner meal. What do they testify to when their opportunity comes?

How do we testify when things are falling apart all around us? How to we speak to God’s goodness and presence when all of it falls away?

The only way we know this is when things fall apart around us, when our plans are destroyed, when our health is compromised, and when we lose it all.

This summer, my friend Mark learned he was dying. Mark was a theatre director–he loved playing with words. Writing, acting and talking about words were what he did best.

The day he learned that he had weeks to months to live, he wrote this:
Fall Apart in my backyard. THIS IS MY NEW MOTTO. This is what I want this time to be for us. Fall apart in my backyard. I’ll be your backyard you can fall apart in. You can be my backyard I can fall apart in. Let’s all fall apart in my backyard. Let’s run, fall apart, get up fall down meanwhile we keep dancing in my backyard.”

This is not a suggestion that we all cry together about what was happening. It was more like, “let’s practice letting our guard down together. Let’s practice taking the mask off and being real with each other.”

When Mark’s life was falling apart, when there was no stone left upon stone, he asked to be surrounded by his friends, to testify together to what was real and true. And in his bedroom, surrounded by medical equipment, we practiced letting our guard down, and speaking about what was real.

In that time that everything in our lives falls apart, we learn what is most important, and what is real.

This church will not be here forever. What has been built by the faithful for the last 325 years, will fall apart. This building that we love so much will not be here forever. So, what will remain when this all falls apart? To what do we testify when the brick and mortar is gone?

In the same way, all the blessings in our lives will fall away. Those material things we thank God for at our dinner table, will go away. When those things we feel most blessed by go away, what’s left? To what do we testify?

It can be overwhelming to think about our lives and our congregation being taken down, stone by stone. But in the destruction the tearing down, there are the hopeful words of the prophet, Isaiah:

I am about to create new heavens and a new earth! The things of the past will not be remembered or come to mind. Be glad and rejoice forever and ever in what i create.

Let us not be fear what may be destroyed. Let us not try to prepare, or try to hold on too tightly After everything is torn down, we can see what is most important–and to that we testify. We testify to the New Heaven and new earth we see being made, even in the middle of the destruction. We tell the story of God’s presence all the time–in the blessings and in those times when the blessings seem elusive.

To what do you testify today?

A Month of Gratitude

On facebook this month, many of my friends have taken the gratitude challenge.  Every day in November, they will list those things for which they are grateful.  While I don’t often participate in that online, our family does focus on that at our dinner table during November.

In the spirit of gratitude for which we turn our hearts this month, I’d like to share a few of the things that have been on my mind lately:

1.  For punishments that result in a loss of screen time.  When those screens go (even for the short amount of time that they are permitted on them) my kids remember the creative things that they also love.  It turns out, not having access to a screen is not much of a punishment.

2.  For “not enough money.”  We have to say no to our kids–we don’t have the money for that exact (and expensive) winter coat she wanted, or for that expensive activity he wanted to attend–but we are grateful for what we do have.

3.  For chilly weather.  As the seasons change, my kids turn to their favorite activity–snuggling under the blankets.  Somehow this always happens when I’m trying to fold laundry, but I’m happy to put off my laundry folding to snuggle up!

4.  For moments of grace.  My nine and twelve year old are learning what grace means.  And when my son needs help and my daughter offers it–unsolicited–he learns about grace.  When my daughter has broken something I really valued, and I give her a hug (even through clenched teeth), she learns about grace.

5.  For growing up.  I know, I’m supposed to savor every moment, because they grow up so fast.  But today I’m grateful for kids that can walk to and from school with their friends, that can stop at the grocery store on their way home and pick up some milk for me, or that can ride their bikes up the road to spend the afternoon with friends.  I’m so pleased to see my kids take on these new responsibilities with joy and enthusiasm, knowing that they are loved and trusted.

What are your moments of gratitude with your kids?  What are theirs?  Let’s take some time with our children this month to reflect on those things–big and small–for which we give thanks to God.

Cross posted at practicingfamilies.com