Worship must be embodied.Ministry must be embodied.Faith must be embodied. This is an undeniable fact. We worship a God who put on flesh and dwelt among us, so how can we deny that our bodies,… More
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An Open Letter to Pastors Ready To Quit: The Plow
I feel it’s only fair to be honest about who is writing this letter. I know who I am, but you may not.
I am a 40 year old woman who is pursuing ministry in the holiness tradition. To some, my age makes me a baby, too young to know better or else so old that I am out of touch. To some, my theology makes me a deceived fool. To some, my gender makes me dangerously outside of God’s will. To some, the combination of all of these nullifies everything I will say from this point on.
If I am disqualified in your estimation because of these things, by all means, do not suffer my words. Feel absolutely free to move to the next article.
But if you are open to hearing my words, I invite you to hear my thoughts on the plow.
Oh, and one final word of who I am, or who I am not, rather.
I am not a farmer.
But I do own a push mower.
This year has been the toughest year that we have faced as pastors, as church leaders, as Christians, as humans. Collectively. I will grant that some may have faced bigger personal struggles or defeats than they faced this year, but I hold to the statement that in the past year leading has never been so hard.
Decision after decision, we shifted, we adjusted, we pivoted. No direction could satisfy everyone, but that was little encouragement as people left.
They left us.
They left our churches.
They left the Church.
And that hurt.
Babies you baptized. Couples you married. People you counseled. You loved them. And they are just gone.
This year delivered a slashing blow to many congregations, and as churches bled out congregants, pastors and leaders were left trying to bind up that wound.
Any hold you could get on the bleeding would be made more difficult by the force of government mandates and political opinions and unclear science. The force pulled in two, division over everything. How could this gash heal if the sides kept pulling apart?
Finally, infection bubbled up. The wound stayed open and dirty looks and words and acts set in. What was originally a clean cut was now festering, so raw and putrid that one would wonder, “Was this site already infected when it was cut and we just didn’t know?” Like, it wasn’t a fresh cut at all, but a blister that had ripped open.
And there you stood, hand to the plow.
You recalled the first time you heard that passage from Luke 9.
“Jesus replied, “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” Luke 9:62
You are fit. You’re not looking back. You’re pressing on. And so you pushed. You pushed hard. You’ve kept going. Maybe others will stop. Maybe others aren’t fit. But you won’t disappoint Jesus. Just. Keep. Going.
Pastor, leader, brother, father, sister, mother, friend: This word from God….it’s not a threat.
And the way we plow, y’all, it’s like we don’t know how to farm. It’s like we don’t know who owns the farm either.
No sensible farmer would plow endlessly, never stopping. No sensible farmer would go in a straight line and never turn. When you plow a field (or in my case, mow my yard) you reach the end of your boundary, and you turn around. You go back and forth. With each turn, you have to look back. You have to evaluate your work and adjust.
And yet, we have pastors plowing as if they want to prove they will never turn, never pause for a drink, never change pace, never reach the end of the row. Make no mistake about it, if this is you, you are living a life of toil. You are turning your ministry into the fruit of the curse of the fall of man.
We keep our eyes fixed. We hoe to the end of the row. At the same time, we must be willing to evaluate our work, and that might lead to a change in direction, a course correction. But if you are serving a master who looks at you, holding your fresh wounds, sun beating down on your exhaustion, and they yell, “You are not fit for the kingdom!” That master is. Not. Jesus.
How do I know? Again, not because I know farming. I don’t.
But I know Jesus. And Jesus knows farming.
We cannot be so committed to our plow that we don’t hear Jesus say this other word about farming.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Mathew 11:28-30
Pastors, leaders, Jesus is not cruel.
His yoke is easy and His burden light.
In your effort to lead well, to care for the church, to heal hurts, to keep on top of everything, to shift and adjust and pivot, if you have heard the voice of condemnation, of merciless driving and never turning, look up. Look to the end of the row. See Jesus there calling you to him. You are his child, and He is a good Father. You are his worker, and He is a fair Master.
You, too, are worth His kindness, His compassion, and His mercy.
Look up. Look up.
There is grace enough, even for you.
Because at the end of the day, He does not call you “Pastor.” He calls you child, beloved, friend. He calls you by your name. He sees who He created you to be and who He is continuing to form you into.
Look up. Look up.
Plow like you were intended to plow, with turns and breaks and grace.
Plow for Your Master, the same one who laid His life down for you…for even you.
Look up.
The Parable Of The Riot
On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus.
“Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”
He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.”
“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”
But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”
Luke 10:25-29
A certain police officer mentally prepared herself for her day. She smoothed her uniform and checked to see if her hair was neat as she headed out the door.
She couldn’t tell if her nerves were apprehension or anticipation, but there was a noticeable buzzing sensation coursing through her veins as she walked down the sidewalk to take her place at the barricade. She found her breathing shallow and slowed her pace slightly. She would need all her energy today, she was sure.
She thought of her bible study which had met on Zoom the night before and how her pastor had prayed for her protection. She thought of the text from her mom she’d received while she was eating her morning muffin. “Praying for you. Love you! Stay safe,” it read.
She took her place at the barricade. On the other side of the metal and plastic barrier separating her from the crowd, she saw people who looked like her cousins, her friends from high school, random acquaintances she’d added on Facebook. Most looked just like her, but others looked like caricatures. Surely, the capes and hats were jokes.
Her walkie buzzed and a voice started to come through, but it was drowned out by the swell of voices in front of her cheering “USA! USA! USA”
The barriers began to shake. The people pressed rhythmically against them, rocking back and forth. She was taken for a brief moment to a memory of jumping in the waves as a child, exciting and scary, but then the barricade came down, the wave of humanity crashed over top of her. She was knocked back, and stumbled. She watched people rush past her as she lost her balance. She was falling and she instinctively grabbed for her gun. She had to protect her weapon. She couldn’t lose it.
Then, as the back of her head met the curb behind her, everything went black.
The crowd stepped around her. A little further up the walk towards the steps a pastor was praying into a megaphone. He cried out to God for justice. The crowd was drawn in around him and his charismatic tones. “AMEN!” they screamed in response. “Grant us justice, Lord!” as they walked past the officer, lying unconscious on the street.
The pastor noticed, from his high vantage point, the body that the crowd was bypassing to get closer to him. If he yelled into his megaphone, perhaps someone would help that poor person. Then he noticed her police hat. He couldn’t bring attention to an officer right now. He was there for a greater purpose. He was a mouthpiece to preserve righteousness, to protect the innocent, to allow the voices of the unheard to gain traction. Anyway, the police force should have a plan for things like this. Help was probably already on the way. He must stay focused.
He spotted a worship leader that he knew in the crowd. “Lead us in song,” he called out through his megaphone. The worship leader had just bumped into the fallen barriers as she was pushed forwards. She looked to her right and saw the officer laying unconscious. She thought of her sisters at home who’d warned her not to come. They’d told her it was dangerous. She almost stopped, but then she heard that request to lead the crowd in song. Wasn’t this what God had made her for? To lead people in praise songs? The officer’s eyes fluttered and she reached for her head. “She’s coming to. She’ll be ok,” thought the worship leader as she began to sing, “We will overcome! We will overcome!”
Walking against the flow of people was a young man. He moved quickly, head down. He wondered if anyone in the crowd could tell. As the protestors had entered the building, he’d taken anything that identified him as the liberal aide he was and shoved it in his pocket. His rainbow flag tie pin his boyfriend had given him for Christmas was poking him in the thigh. He didn’t have any Black Lives Matter paraphernalia on, but he couldn’t hide his skin. Even though his complexion was light compared to some people he knew, he felt very aware of how much darker he was than pretty much everyone around him. “Get out of here alive,” was all he thought.
Then he saw her.
She looked like the cops who’d stood opposite him and his friends at protests during the summer. She looked like his 8th grade English teacher who never liked him. She looked like someone he’d blocked on social media because she wouldn’t stop replying “All Lives Matter” on all of his posts.
She sat up and started to crawl out of the way, towards the grass. She paused when she reached the edge and heaved her breakfast into the bushes. She reached one hand to her head and used the other to grab the bush in a weak attempt to steady herself.
He knew the signs of a concussion. He was a running back in high school. He could remember getting run over by the defense. This lady didn’t have any pads on.
He crouched down next to her. “Hey sweetie,” he cooed. He felt aware of his own voice, which did not sound manly enough for the crowd of marauding vikings so close by. He cleared his throat and dropped his voice a little, like he used to in the locker room. “Let’s get you up. You need help. Can you stand?” He put her arm around his shoulder and started to lift her up, but she cried out.
He knew if he did get her up, he wouldn’t be able to walk her all the way to the hospital. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the call button on her walkie talkie. A voice came through and he replied, “Officer down. Back up requested.” He gave a location and then felt panic rise in his chest. He didn’t want to be anywhere near there when back up arrived. He didn’t want to have his hands on an injured cop. He was about to tell her that she’d be ok, help was on the way, when she grabbed his hand.
“Thank you,” she said, “Don’t leave me.” She swayed again and he caught her.
She began to pray to herself, but she murmured the name of Jesus audibly. He was troubled as he thought of the “Jesus Saves” signs he’d passed as he’d tried to escape this madness. His mom was a Christian. She talked about Jesus all the time. But this? He looked around as he waited with her for help to arrive.
Who is this Jesus that this cop prays to?
Who is this Jesus that the crowd cries out to?
Where was the Jesus his mother preached to him about?
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor
to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”
Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”
Luke 10:36-37
I am still processing the events that I have seen take place over the past month.
This is part of that processing for me.
I am praying that I would see our country, our world and the Church more like Christ sees them.
Will you pray for me?
Will you pray with me?
Cain, Abel and New Year’s Resolutions
In 2021, one of my goals is to read the whole Bible. I want to read it like a story, not an assignment. I want to get to know the characters better, to see their storylines weave in and out of one another, to see themes develop. And being who I am, I don’t want to wait to January 1st to start.
So this morning I flipped open the cover to Genesis. Creation begins, God making each day’s work designed to bring the life of the next day’s work. He creates people, one from the other, one flesh without even the separation of a name. The fall happens, and this flesh is divided, and in the act of naming, a division is noted. The consequences of choosing to disobey God are laid out.
I pull out my journal and start to write down questions I have. When and why did the animals change from eating plants? What did the serpent look like before? Why did God say that man “must not be allowed to reach out his hand and eat from the tree of life? God DOES want us to eat from the tree of life. Is it the “reach out his hand” that had to change? Why?
I return to reading, and move on to the first brothers, Cain and Abel. Abel kept the flocks and Cain worked the soil. It was those two words which gave me pause. “kept” and “worked.” A quick search on blueletterbible.org showed me that a keeper was one who holds something that has been entrusted to them, while the word describing Cain denotes servitude, that one would make themselves a servant of the other. And Cain..is serving…the soil.
I flipped back to Genesis 2 and reread the consequences of the fall of man. God says to Adam, “Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life.” Something clicked in my head. What we see with these brothers is not that one chose one job and one did another. What is demonstrated is that Abel is doing the work assigned to man at creation and Cain is doing the work which is the result of the fall of man.
The brothers each bring God an offering, Cain bringing “some of the fruits of the soil” and Able bringing “fat portions from some of the firstborn of his flock.” My whole life I have heard this explained as “Cain brought some, but Abel brought his best.”
I pulled my journal back out. I had questions.
Was it that Cain didn’t bring the best? Or is it that he brought the fruit of HIS toil, the result of the curse? Perhaps the point was not that Cain didn’t pick the perfect potato, but that his offering wasn’t returning to God what was His. Cain offered to God the evidence of his own hard work.
For much of my life, reading this rejection stung. It felt arbitrary. I guess God likes steak, more than vegetables. There is no explanation of how Cain’s vegetables are subpar, just that they are “some.” Couldn’t they have been good ones? There is nothing telling us that Cain had any guidelines on what to offer.
In the same way, I often felt that I didn’t know how to pick a good offering. I would work at doing what I thought was right, but it didn’t seem to turn out how I thought it should. I would find myself bargaining with God, “If You ______, then I will ______.” Or sometimes, “Come on, God, I _______. Can’t You do better?” I would try to do the right things, but I often felt like giving up. I felt like I was standing before a flesh-eating God with a basket of small potatoes.
Not to mention, Abel didn’t have to do much to make the animals fat. He just had to watch them, guide them, and let them do what animals were made to do.
How many times had I seen others, who without even seeming to try, just had this easy faith and lives that reflected the favor of God? How is that fair?
Poor Cain, I used to think. He was set up.
God tells Cain off and Cain doesn’t go hunt down his brother, he invites him to the very field that where he had worked so hard to grow “some fruit.” There, he lashes out. He murders his brother. God reappears and the curse that is issued to Cain is that he will no longer be able to produce crops and he will be nomadic. Then God tacks on that Cain can not be killed.
How does that punishment fit the crime? Shouldn’t Cain be killed? (Oh, isn’t that the trouble with the knowledge of good and evil? We question God’s justice constantly.)
Perhaps the punishment is not just this really specific literal punishment of this one guy. Perhaps the punishment is there for anyone who attempts to build his offering on his own merit. The punishment exists for those who slaughter the representation of the offering which is simply returning to God what God has entrusted to him.
The toil will no longer bear fruit. There will be no sense of home, of community. And the result of that punishment, it will make man wish to make that fruitless, rootless toiling come to any end…but it never will.
It is grim, for sure. Hopeless, one might think. Except…
When God tells Cain off, if I change the voice in my head from a condemning, angry voice, I hear the offer of hope. God says to Cain, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”
Cain wasn’t set up. Just like his parents weren’t set up in the garden. They had options. Cain had options. The very fact that Abel kept flocks shows us that even outside the garden walls, we can do what God designed us to do. We do not live hopeless existences bound to failure at every turn. We have options, and God reminds us that we must rule over it. And if we must, one can assume…we can. God says as much to Cain.
The story of Cain and Abel is not about a ruthless, picky God. It is the example of what happens when we live our lives under the curse of the fall of man, when we chose to tend our own garden. No potato Cain picked would have been good enough.
And this story offers hope.
Abel’s sacrifice was never Abel’s sacrifice. The point isn’t that Abel created something special. It’s that GOD created something special. God created that animal. God created the fat and ordered its birth. We don’t have to create an offering good enough for God. We just have to tend to what God creates and return thanks to Him.
God is not a flesh eating monster waiting to condemn me and consume me. God is a provider. God gives good gifts and equips us well. God has good things for us to do and it doesn’t have to be an endless death march through life.
What does this have to do with New Year’s resolutions? Many of us are sitting with good intentions of improving ourselves. We have a list of things that will make us better people. Go running. Make the bed daily. Lose weight. Be a better spouse/parent/friend. Read the Bible.
These are good potatoes. These are good sheep. One of these is not more noble than the others.
But we did not create our bodies to serve a scale or to run a race. We did not form our relationships. We did not author the Bible. God did those things for us, for His glory and for our good. It is right for us to care for them.
As you (and I) go forward with our goals this year, ask these 3 questions.
What is the good gift God has given you?
How can you tend to it well?
And how can you return it with thanksgiving to the One who gave it to you?
Then you will not toil in drudgery.
Then you keep well.
And I think you will find that what you offer will be accepted.
A Candlelight Christmas Observation
On Christmas Eve, I went to church.
Not metaphorical church. Actual church.
I welcomed people and took attendance. I handed out candy canes to the children as they left. I stood with my family, held a little white candle and sang Silent Night.
I don’t take for granted that my church has a large building with good ventilation and space to spread out. I don’t take it for granted that our people have been willing to wear masks. We have been relatively fortunate to this point, a credit I give not just to God’s mercy, but also to our congregation and leaders’ willingness to see safety measures as a way to show care to one another.
Back in the spring, when I attended our last in person service before the shut down, I cried. So many people were absent. I stood in the lobby at the end with a friend who said, “Wasn’t that amazing?” I told him I was so confused at how others had said the same thing. To me, it felt like a funeral. I saw empty seats that people would never again fill, because they will drift or die before we returned to church.
Christmas Eve, we took reservations and assigned seats. As always, masks were required, and we had extras on hand in case someone forgot theirs. People were met at the door and walked to their row. There was very little milling about. The service was beautiful. Our young leaders stood overseeing the service and I couldn’t help but marvel at how much they’ve grown in the past year. They were confident. They led and spoke and worshipped, not just skillfully but honestly and humbly. Our church’s former pastor was in attendance. A friend of mine entered with her daughter and her family, a little pack of people I’ve prayed for for years. I saw friends from out of town.
Then came the moment we all had waited for. Our pastor lit his candle from the Christ candle and began to pass the light through the people gathered. The large gaps between us were bridged for a second as a person would enter the next person’s space, briefly, just long enough to light the other’s candle. People hurried back to their original spot.
Here was the moment I’d waited for. I looked at my children and husband, lit by the warm glow in each of their hands. Beautiful.
Then I turned my head to look around. On Christmas Eve’s past, this is the most beautiful moment of the year. The room, so full that staff is worried about fire codes, and the balcony overflows, swells beyond capacity with Christmas glory. And yet, this year, entire rows were dark. Some rows only had 2 little lights, separated by 10 unlit spaces. In some places, there were three and four empty rows before the next family was found.
Somewhere from behind, the sense of a funeral service in the middle of a celebration, that ache I felt in the spring, tapped me on the shoulder. There were spots left open for people who registered, but did not attend. Were they sick? Were they afraid? Or did a church service not feel necessary? I thought of other churches who were meeting at the same moment, and of their empty seats.
I thought of empty seats that I know where these people were gone from our earthly gathering forever. I tried to touch the truth that I know they are worshipping in a way I can’t comprehend, but holding hands with that truth was the reminder that there are orphans and widows spending their first Christmas feeling utterly alone.
I turned back to see my family. There was that moment of beauty I longed to see. My son, singing loudly behind his mask, whose faith has been deepened in the past year. He has had the opportunity to serve our food bank and on Sundays, to eat meals weekly with a mentor, read devotionals on his Bible app. My daughter tucked into me and I was reminded of the times she and I watched church online with her tucked onto the recliner with me. She has served alongside me all year, her desire to help being nurtured by the opportunities she’s had to do things like take temperatures and check kid’s in to Kid’s City. My husband, the introvert, noticing our pastor and his young daughter in front of us with their candle, prompted me to snap a picture of that moment. I thought of all the times he’d watched our pastor online, while he worked on his etsy store or in our living room, and how those moments have served to speak to him.
A few moments later, lights extinguished, everyone was headed home. On my drive home, I called a friend who hadn’t come because of a number of 2020 reasons. She was finishing her time with her extended family and was preparing to watch the online service. We wished Merry Christmas and I left her to attend church online. I spoke another friend, her family shuttered away after positive Covid tests. There was a sweetness in her tone when she told me how her husband had run to the bathroom for candles. They’d shut out all the lights in their home and lit candles for the candle light portion of the service.
Then as I arrived home, I found my husband cooking spaghetti. Soon, dinner was served. We lit all the candles on our advent wreath. There under the glow of hope, peace, joy, love and Christ, we shared a meal.
I have seen people post that it was weird or different to have their Christmas Eve services at home. Can I encourage you with the truth that Christmas Eve at in person service was a little weird and different as well. Everyone recognizes the ache for others. I cannot deny that on both sides virtual and in person, the “different” sense was missing others. However, everyone I’ve heard from, no matter how they attended Christmas Eve service, all noted what they gained from the experience. They all found value in the experience.
In the spring, with the shutdowns, I heard many people saying, “We need to open the church. For some people, the only community they have is Sunday morning!” We also know that Christmas Eve is often the only time during the year that some people will attend and hear Jesus’s name. These are arguments given for returning to “normal.”
These reasons, however, are not good reasons to return to the old ways of “doing church.” They are symptoms of a disease that has infected the church for some time. They are evidence that the church has been in a pandemic, of sorts, for far longer than Covid has been around.
These reasons bear witness to the fact that we have decided that the best we can give the lonely, the widowed, the orphaned, and the isolated, is roughly one hour a week of sitting near them listening to someone speak. A few moments of coffee and conversation on each side of the hour and we declare we are caring well.
These reasons bear witness to the dreadful silence on the lips of believers. Assurance is private. Joy is contained. Compassion is restrained. Our faith has become so used to being bound by ties and tight shoes that we have lost the sense of undignified worship of the Father. That there are people who literally hear nothing of our faith from us, and that we hope for the one chance a year to take them with us to a service where someone else says the name of Jesus to them, oh believer, it should not be so.
As we prepare for the new year, as we hope that 2020 will leave 2020 in 2020 and not leak over into 2021, I plead with you to review the year and look for what growth has come with this experience.
See in the disruption of your schedule and the cancelation of your activities what has been able to flourish because you are using your time differently. See where you had to get creative to see loved ones. See where relationships have grown. See where you were able to learn new skills in order to meet a need created by the pandemic. See where you have read new books or listened to podcasts that have broadened your perspective. See the opportunities. See the connections.
See the places where there was candlelight, no matter if you lit your light in a sanctuary or in your living room.
Don’t be afraid to let some of 2020 carry forward. Don’t long for 2019.
And if all you can see are empty seats, unlit candles, reach out. Call your pastor. Text a friend. See how you might help light those candle, carry the light into our world and our neighborhoods and our homes. Be willing to try new ways to form and foster community. Trust that human touch will return. Hugs will return. In the meantime, intentionally seek out those who weren’t getting hugged before the pandemic so that when things do settle down, they aren’t forgotten again.
Until we meet again, friend, whether it be through in person or virtual means, BE THE CHURCH.
Do I Have To Be Thankful This Thanksgiving?
Thankfulness is not a fruit of the Spirit.
And the implications of that, well…they stink.
It’d have been a bit more helpful for my jaded moods if God had either made it a fruit of the Spirit or had omitted it from the Bible. Thankfulness isn’t just included in the Bible, it’s commanded over and over.
“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.” – Colossians 3:15
“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful,
and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe” – Hebrews 12:28
“Pray continually,give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.“
– 1 Thessalonians 5:17-18
I could keep going, pulling quotes on thankfulness, but just trust me, there aren’t any that let you off the hook about it.
I know that 2020 has been a real…situation…but in the past week I have come across a fair number of articles about years past such as, 25 Things You Didn’t Know About Life in Greece/Rome and 37 Health Practices of the Middle Ages and The History of Plagues and Wars You Weren’t Taught and The History of Toilet Paper. What have I learned? Well, if you think hoarding toilet paper, wearing a mask and staying home is bad, you ain’t lived through the half of it.
But at the end of the day in 2020 there is the nagging feeling of “not enough.”
Not enough money.
Not enough resources.
Not enough sports.
Not enough school.
Not enough time with people.
Not enough people.
Not enough basic human decency.
Not enough.
And there’s not enough holiday decorations in the world to cover up that feeling.
So what do we do, on this, the Thanksgiving with the least reason to be thankful that most of us have ever lived through? Allow me to pull one more Bible verse.
And he directed the people to sit down on the grass.
Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the people.
– Matthew 14:19.
There were so many people and a laughable amount of food. I imagine that at least one of the disciples thought turning over 5 loaves and 2 fishes would get them off the hook for feeding 5,000 plus people. But it didn’t.
Jesus took the not enough, said thanks and offered it to God. I can almost hear him saying, “This ‘not enough,’ it is Yours, Father. Do with it what You will.” And then he served others.
This miracle, it wasn’t a one of. Jesus did the same thing for a crowd of 4,000 in Matthew 15. Jesus wasn’t making a point about bread, he was making a point about our hearts.
One more time that Jesus echoed this pattern, taking the bread, giving thanks and offering it to God and then feeding others. It was at the Last Supper. He doesn’t hide the metaphor here.
This is my body.
This is my blood.
A laughable sacrifice.
Surely, not enough, in comparison with the ravenous hunger of the debt of sin waiting to consume us.
Yet, Jesus thanked God, offered himself, and gave himself.
And God took the offering and multiplied it, providing satisfaction, provision, and grace for the whole world.
Jesus lived out the lesson that thankfulness is not a fruit of the Spirit, rather it is a choice which takes its eyes off of “not enough” and moves them first to God and then to the needs of others. Thankfulness is the step that allows us to experience abundance from the “not enough.” We shouldn’t be surprised really. Our God is a “cup runneth over” kind of God.
I am preaching to myself here and I sense the need to pray. If you, like me, are struggling with the frustration of “not enough” I invite you to pray with me.
Father, My attention has been consumed by the “not enough.”
I look at the products I need dwindling on the shelves.
I struggle to help my kids with their schoolwork.
I miss sports and friends. I don’t want to deal with slow downs in shipping.
And I really don’t want to spend Thanksgiving at home.
Father, help me be open to the abundance You make out from circumstances I call not enough.
Thank You for the food and supplies we do have.
Thank You for hybrid school and the technology we have to do our best with our kids’ education.
Thank You shipping and for the people who do those jobs.
Thank You for a warm home, that the Macy’s parade is still on (sort of),
for Miracle on 34th St, and for the potatoes we already have.
Thank You for another Zoom call.
That one is the hardest for me to say thank you for,
because I don’t see how that can be enough,
but You do.
So You do with it what You will.
I trust You because You are trustworthy.
It’s in Your name I pray.
Amen.
The Basic Human Decency Project
I took a modified social media fast during September. I set timers on my apps. I switched off notifications. I stopped clicking links or debating anything from politics to “Pumpkin: yay or nay?”
My brother asked me a “Did you know” question last week and I thought, “Actually, I don’t know the answer to that. I haven’t clicked anything in nearly a month that would give me that information. I am uninformed but happy!”
I am uninformed. That is probably the worst thing you could admit publically right now.
Uninformed. The enemy of reason. Uninformed. The opposite of right. Uninformed. The problem all of everything is bent on solving whether we want it solved or not. Except….what are we being informed about? Who are we being informed by? And what is the cost of the information?
I will tell you what I think the cost is. The cost is BASIC. HUMAN. DECENCY.
I got back online October 1st to read about a celebrities loss of a child, and then read mocking comments about the abortion debate. On October 2nd I got up to read my friends, people I love and respect posting laughter and death wishes to the president. And I wondered, was it always like this? Did it get worse over the course of September?
Have you watched “The Social Dilemma?” You know how algorithms are making us more polarized and more angry and more willing to say and do radical and unfeeling things? You know how the algorithm silos us into like-minded pods where we only hear things we like and posts from similarly thinking people about topics we agree with? Well, it’s working, for sure.
I have been engaging in discussions about tech ethics and whether or not we should even be on social media at all if it is this big of a problem. Yesterday, my mentor gave me some great advice about just using it for a directed purpose and then getting off of it.
I got up this morning, checked my feed, prayed over what I saw, ate a donut and had an idea. I am going to spend October doing a “basic human decency project,” and I need your help! It is one thing to “flood Facebook with pictures of puppies!!!” or “flood Facebook with the last picture you took of a sunrise!” However, each of us posting 1 thing all at the same time doesn’t create a shift. What will create a shift will be ongoing posting, commenting, liking and sharing posts that highlight positive things, good things, things that say “I like basic human decency and I want to see more things that support basic human decency.”
So if you like basic human decency, here is what I’m asking from you.
FOR THE REST OF THE MONTH OF OCTOBER…
1. Post daily a picture or a kind thought or uplifting message. Make a concerted effort to not twist it
to support a political end, unless you are highlighting the basic human decency you see in
someone who represents the opposite end of the political spectrum from yourself.
2. Tag it #basichumandecency and #basichumandecencyproject
3. When you see other posts tagged the same way, like them and share them.
4. Invite other people to do the same.
It’s that easy.
I have heard that we are losing our social construct of common ground. If that is an area of weakness in our defenses, then lets stop and work on that together. Let’s take time to inform each other and the algorithm that we still want the same things.
Will you, please, join with me to bring back #basichumandecency?
In Christ, All Lives Matter, But…
I have witnessed people using Galatians 3:27 in discussion of black lives matter vs. all lives matter. This verse reads “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
This should settle the matter, correct??? It seems pretty cut and dry, there is no difference between us in Christ. We are all one.
Here’s the question that remains though….why did Paul need to say this?
Easy.
Because while in Christ all lives matter, all lives are equal, people are all viewed and judged and treated equitably, in Galatia they were not. The churches in Galatia were adding requirements to the gospel and applying them to gentiles. The church was taking part in racial discrimination and perverting the gospel in so doing.
The statement “black lives matter” is not addressing theology, is not addressing the gospel, is not addressing the kingdom of God and the established law of love. It is addressing America. And America is not the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God is the kingdom of God.
I am not suggesting that if you’ve said “All lives matter” that you are a hateful racist. Quite honestly, many of the people I’ve heard say it are saying it because in their estimation, in their heart, they do not feel differently about other people because of the color of their skin. It might be entirely in line with their beliefs to say, “In Christ and in my eyes, there is no difference.”
However, as Christians, we should not feel that the statement “black lives matter” is an affront to our faith. We should feel that it sounds pretty close to what Paul would say. If Paul were writing to America it is very likely that he would say the same thing he said to the churches in Galatia. In Christ, there is no difference between black or white, but sadly in America, there seems to be.
I look forward to a day when I see in glory what God’s kind of reconciliation between all tribes, tongues and nations looks like. That is going to be one amazing scene.
What’s A White Girl To Do?
Can I just dive straight into this? Without any bait and switch, I try to trick you with some opening paragraph to lure you in with a “what could she mean?”
This question of, “As a white person, what do I do?” is a question I have seen posted so many times over the past 3 days, by girls just like me trying to work out how to respond in light of #irunwithmaud, #breonnataylor, #justiceforgeorge.
This time of social distancing and isolation has been stretching to say the least. Not just as it applies to how to live in a pandemic, but beyond that, how do we live in this world, in our society, in our communities. Because as I have been learning to limit my rights for the well-being of others, putting on a mask or staying home, I have been learning another area where I need to set aside self-interest.
Over the past few years I have watched a few of my friends who will post the hashtags or share the stories and I wonder, how did this become the issue they fight for? I watch and weigh out situation after situation, waiting for enough information to come through for me to decide which narrative I am going to believe. I think about people of color who are my family and friends and recognize there is a disparity there, a brokenness there. And it confuses me.
In the face of the brokenness of our country over racial issues, what am I, a white girl, supposed to do?
I don’t have all the answers. None of us do. But this I know. We need to make some decisions about if and how this will change us for more than just the reactionary period of this week. So, here is what I’m going to do.
1) I am going to stop weighing out the value of other people of color against the value of people of color whom I love.
The victim of the crimes that we see on tv, they aren’t valuable because they bear the image of someone who has brought happiness into my life. They aren’t valuable because they remind me of a cute black kid I once knew.
They are valuable because they are image bearers of the living, breathing, God of the universe!
2) I am going to stop worrying if my social media friends will think I’ve gone political.
This isn’t a left vs. right thing. This isn’t an either or. We can expect more out of our law enforcement. We can have a strong police force and not be ok with murder.
Because you know what? Ridding our justice system of these kind of brutalities, it makes the system better! It makes the badge more honorable, not less! It proves the worth of the person in uniform. Demanding justice for senseless acts of violence and inhumanity is to say, “I refuse to let THAT be what defines our justice system.”
3) I will say something, click report, speak up, share.
Why? Because we built this country on the back of an enslaved people group, and even though they are freed, we have since the beginning of that freedom put the burden of restoration and rising up squarely on the same backs that we whipped into submission.
Should I be the one speaking for the black experience? Or the Asian experience? Or the hispanic experience? No! But hasn’t it been long enough that they have been yelling “Listen to me!!!!” By saying something, clicking report, speaking up, and sharing, I am accepting the responsibility of crying out “Listen up!” and silencing the crowd, so that the correct voices can be heard.
4) I will intentionally seek out relationships outside of my race.
And in those relationships I will seek an exchange of care, not looking for some poor soul I can reach out to so that I may better their lives.
Even moreso, I will seek to be educated by people of color on issues that extend beyond racism. I will look to hear their thoughts on the things that matter most to me, theology, family, culture, compassion.
5) I will stop waiting to see if there is more to the story.
If Ahmaud had stolen a hammer from the worksite, would it have justified his murder? If Breonna had gotten out of bed, would it have justified her murder? If George had used a fake $20, would it have justified his murder? No.
What explanation is plausible for this?
6) I will repent.
I don’t have the right to simply grieve or lament.
I have not acted. I have not spoken up. I have “withheld judgement” like I am holding court over media images of dead bodies.
And this one hurts deeply…my silence has become a black mark on the gospel. I have let my God down.
That’s what this white girl is going to do.
If you’d like some resources, check out these links.
https://www.facebook.com/TheBridgeChurchVA/videos/249791866360008
-This conversation by The Bridge Church includes Chris Johnson, the pastor of DUCC, and his wife, along with 3 other couples, one black, one white and one interracial. Good open conversation.
https://mcleanbible.org/sermons/Psalms/7/
-This one includes perspectives from other cultures as well who are impacted by the lack of unity in diversity in our country.
https://medium.com/equality-includes-you/what-white-people-can-do-for-racial-justice-f2d18b0e0234?fbclid=IwAR3yV4GKuCwLcCRp8-MzJpbISC4Lh2f766_9lIkT2u2c5Q31g8OpaeFiiFI
– A list of 75 things white people can do practically for racial justice
Some suggestions of thoughtful voices to follow on social media; Julian Newman, Latasha Morrison, Carlos Whittaker, Tedashii, Be The Bridge
Please feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments.
Text Flyod to 55156 to call for charges to be filed against the arresting officer in the death of George Floyd.
Do You Even Like Me?
This is what it boils down to over and over in my life.
Do you even like me?
I mean, really, actually like me?
People can disagree with me or think I’m wrong all day (clearly, I’m right, but that’s another point 😉 However, if there is one thing that stifles me, that can stop me dead in my tracks, it’s catching the sense that someone doesn’t like me.
It used to be such a controlling factor that I allowed it to shape how I presented myself to the outside world. But scarier than that, it used to be such a controlling factor that I allowed it to shape how I presented myself to myself.
The biggest challenge is moving past wondering if other people like me and learning to love myself. Once I worked through stepping out from underneath the crushing weight of my perception of other people’s opinions, I had to ask myself, “Do you even like me?
It isn’t something I have all figured out. It is a question I have to continue to wrestle with. But, I have at least come to the point where I can see myself like a garden planted by a good gardener. That means I’m still growing. As new things pop up, I stop and wonder if what just broke ground is going to be a new flower I’ve never seen, some offshoot growing off an old flower, or a weed that will threaten what’s already blooming. It means I find creepy crawly things and dirt and mess, which aren’t all bad!
I’m going to do something here that’s a little out of order. I’m going to share the conclusion of this post, which is, we all need to come to a place where we stop asking everyone else, “Do you even like me,” and we ask ourselves that question.
I’m sharing that at this point, because maybe you won’t find the rest of this post interesting at all, and that’s ok. I have had a lot of new people stop by my blog in the past 48 hours though, and what follows should serve as a this is who Sarah Kinzer is. I’d love to invite you to take a walk around my garden.
1. Everything in my garden points to a gardener.
Anyone who knows how I garden in the literal sense will tell you, if a flower is kept alive at my house, it ain’t because I did something right. It’s because it’s an exceptionally hard to kill flower. Or it’s a pinwheel.
The same is true in my life. If you are new to my blog, if you are new to me, let me introduce myself. My name is Sarah and I believe in God, the living, breathing, creator and sustainer of the universe who deeply cares about the whole world, and who deeply cares about me.
I like God. This is who I am, and I like that about me.
2. My garden gate has no lock.
Literally anyone is welcome in my garden. I don’t care how you look, talk, dress, think, or speak. Anyone can come in.
I used to say “I hate people,” but I think that was a lie that I told myself. The truth of the matter is I like everyone. I really like people. Like in the way that makes people go “Woah, Sarah, you seem to really like me.” And before, when I was all wrapped up in my fear of rejection, the “I hate everyone” line was a defense mechanism, a lock on my garden gate. It was so confusing to me how I could like other people so much, but they didn’t like me back the same. The fact of the matter is, not everyone else likes people as much as I do, and that is ok. Once I figured that out, it was like the lock broke off my gate.
I like people. This is who I am, and I like that about me.
3. My garden has a path.
I may not have a lock, but I do have a path.
If I find someone off the path, trampling what I’ve been growing or ripping things out by the root, or pointing at my flowers and laughing, I’m going to ask them to get back on the path. If someone is trying to reattach the lock to my gate, I’m going to tell them I don’t do locks. If I find someone trying to pull down my garden swing, I’m going to tell them to knock it off.
What grows in my garden is valuable, and one of the hardest lessons I’m learning is how protect what grows in my life. My gifts, my talents, my people, my heart, are worth protecting.
Also, my garden is not full of stepping stones and bridges. It is wild and a good bit is overgrown, like an English cottage garden that values wildflowers. If you’re walking with me, you’re going to be walking in dirt. And not everyone wants to do that. so the path is there as a courtesy for them, too.
I like my messy me. That is who I am, and I like that about me.
4. My garden has a certain kind of party.
And my party is super confusing. The soundtrack is almost always Ellie Holcomb, laid back crunchy guitar music or Andy Mineo, Christian rap, or it is some random podcast. The food I offer is going to be allergy-aware, but may not be healthy at all. There will be dancing. There will be laughing. It will be super, super loud.
If I like it, I’ll talk about it at my party. So that means, we’re going to talk about Harry Potter, Gilmore Girls, funny tiktoks, ethical conundrums, social justice issues, implications of scripture, books I’ve read, song lyrics, wrestling, kid’s football and cheer, things I remember about the 90s, a podcast I listened to once, conversations I’ve had that made me happy, what I like about you, what I like about someone else, what I like about everyone.
And sometimes, I’m also going to talk about what I don’t like. And I’m not going to hide my opinion of it. I’m not going to mince words. If I don’t like something, I’m not going to pretend I do.
And I’m just not going to be quiet. I’m not.
I like what I like. That is who I am, and I like that about me.
So, that’s what I got this morning. A walk around my garden with me.
I’d love to take a tour of your garden sometime, and to hear what it is you like about you.
I Am Done Going To Church.
After 39 years of consistent church attendance, I feel it is time for me to go public with my decision which has been heavily impacted by recent events.
I am done going to church.
Many places around this country will be reopening this weekend and people will be returning to their pews. Everyone wants the normal back.
I don’t. I truly and sincerely don’t.
I am done going to church.
Please, don’t hear what I’m not saying…I am not saying that I no longer want to gather or worship or learn or serve alongside other followers of Christ. As I have thought about how best to say this, I have heard Hebrews 10:24-25 float through my mind. “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”
But still…I am done going to church.
I haven’t been able to “go to church” on Sunday mornings for over 2 months now. The last time I stood in a service we had about 1/8th of our regular congregation in attendance and I wept like it was a funeral. It hurt. It felt wrong. Standing in the sanctuary with a fraction of my family cut like I had no idea it would. I miss gathering.
I acknowledge how difficult this time must be for those who the traditional Sunday morning gathering was their entire Christian family. That Sunday morning was ever that for people is something I have begun to understand as lamentable, a failure on my part to live out what church should be. If that is you, please hear my heartfelt apology.
But this break has given me a new mind about going to church.
I have spent Sunday mornings watching service in jammies and eating breakfast at the same time. I will confess, if no one else is willing to, that I have also spent Sunday mornings telling (or fussing at…or barking at) my children to stop harassing the cats or to sit up because I do too know they aren’t just “resting their eyes.” But in the end, we’ve worshipped as a family.
I have spent Wednesday’s tuning in to the new half hour video conversation with our pastor called MidWeek. While dinner simmers on the stove, we sit together and learn. My husband laughs and cheers when our pastor says the word wrestling. My kids answer the funny questions at the beginning and have taken to studying our pastor’s idiosyncrasies. Sitting in our living room, our family feels more connected to our leadership, feeling more like “this guy is my pastor” than ever before.
Bringing Sunday morning into our living room has changed the rest of our weekdays. I’ve helped on a team of people making masks. I’ve made treats and pick up supplies. I’ve dropped things on doorsteps and run off, the best kind of ding dong ditch ever. I’ve been able to do these things with the help of my kids, them riding along and doing drop offs. Them taping together little bits of wire in bundles of ten for facemask kits. They have always served alongside me on Sunday mornings, but this day to day doing what they can do to show care to others, this is fresh.
I’ve been able to think outside the box and try new things. Sometimes things work and sometimes they don’t. But I am learning and growing and DOING the work of GOING!
An ache for community has pressed the design of everything I’m doing to have a more intentional impact for meaningful connection. The absence of constant communication, the introduction of silence, has pressed the design of everything I’m doing to effectively communicate messages that matter.
That last service where I wept and felt the sense of a funeral, oh how I pray that that was what it was. Because I know that I serve a resurrected Savior, and work for a God of new life.
When this began, many of us thought we’d be back together by Easter and laughed about the daydream of all of us together again on the best Sunday of the year. Easter came and went and we were all home. But I am still holding out hope that the first time we gather together again will indeed be Resurrection Sunday.
Let going to church be dead.
Let being the church be born.
Let being the church be born and grow so strong and healthy that the days of going to church are strange memories.
Let gathering not be about getting that spiritual fix so we can make it through another week, but rather about what we can give. Let us give our worship to God. Let us give our service to others. Let us look into each other’s eyes instead of over one another’s shoulder to who we want to talk to next.
Let our days be filled with action to meet the needs of others. Let us involve the next generation in the work of reconciliation. Let us work together with others who are in the church, an assembly line of compassion.
Let our families worship together. Let us see our loved ones delight in time spent listening to God’s word and like them more because of it.
Let us seek out the lonely, the hurt, the invisible, and let us seek to offer community, healing and presence.
Let us not wait for our leaders to design a program to tell us what to do. Let us do. Let us try. Let us go. Let us be.
Let us see our faith not as made up, in nice clothes, where we can’t drop food on our shirts or can’t soak in a service with our feet up. Let us worship in spirit and truth, truth which doesn’t mean “rightness” but truth that means “honesty and vulnerability.” Let our worship of God be real. Even if it is messy. Even if it is emotional. Even if it isn’t “Sunday best.”
I am done going to church.
And I am asking you, inviting you, imploring you to please….please….will you be done going to church with me?
Sarah Kinzer 