THE MILE THAT IS GREEN

 I got rained out at work today, so I went to the hot tub for a few minutes to soak my old joints before getting the day started.  I was sitting there, sipping coffee, and scrolling social media when I saw a friend's post, and it made me think about something.  

If I could pick only one character from a movie with which to relate, who would it be?

So, I started going through the list.  I'm not a huge movie buff anyhow, it's just too much of a time commitment, but there are some that I love.  Sometimes, I can relate to Clark W. Griswold, Jr, but that's not what hit me, even as much as I love Christmas Vacation.  

I'm a huge fan of Middle Earth, and I've seen all the cuts of all the movies, but it wasn't the elves, dwarves, hobbits, Gandalf, or even Aragorn.  

I waited with bated breath for each of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies to come out, but it wasn't any of those characters, either.  I even have a Jolly Roger tattooed on my foot.  That hurt, but I had to have it.  

It's a character from a movie that I could only bear to watch one time, but once was enough to leave a lasting impression on me.  John Coffey, from the Green Mile.  It's a beautifully tragic movie, and the casting was about as close to perfect as one could get.  I don't remember a lot about it, again, because I could only watch it once, but there is one scene that I will never forget.  I don't remember if Tom Hank's character, Paul Edging, was the prison warden or not, I think he was, but he walked those last steps with several inmates, and in this scene there was a moment that was almost holy.   

The lights are low, the music is somber, and it's such a tender moment between two characters who have been brought together by fate and a crooked legal system.  You can see the feelings in Paul Edging's face and see the tears streaming from John Coffey's eyes.  It's so beautiful, yet so heart breaking.  John knew his time was coming to an end, and even though he was wrongly convicted, he was ready.  Then he says it...

"I want it to be over and done with.  I do.  I'm tired, boss.  Tired of being on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain.  I'm tired of never having me a buddy to be with, to tell me where we're going to, coming from, or why.  Mostly, I'm tired of people being ugly to each other.  I'm tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world, every day.  There's too much of it.  It's like pieces of glass in my head, all the time.  Can you understand?"

Tom Hanks looks at him with pain and understanding on his face, and says, "Yes, John, I think I can."

I've blogged about this before, years ago, but it just keeps coming back, and the fact that it came to me today is not surprising in the least.  With our current reality, trying to lead the Church as one news story after another unfolds, I'm tired, too, John.  

I feel you.  I understand.   I hear you.  And I can relate.  I can't empathize because I've never been in that situation, but I can sympathize, and I do.  

The calling to pastoral ministry, ministry of Word, table, and order, is a life long dance on a knife's edge.  We have to be in the world but not of the world.  We have to pay attention to what's going on around us, keep ears open to the leading of the Spirit, and push back against social injustice and corrupt systems without running folks off.  For 20 years of my career I heard so much about numbers.  We had to track and report attendance, baptisms, professions of faith, and weekly at times.  But I don't remember ever being asked to track the times we stood against evil.  

If I push too hard for the kingdom of God on earth, I run the risk of alienating church members.  If we're complacent about things that matter, we're not doing our job.  If I preach a vengeful God, waiting with God's finger hovering over some cosmic smite button, I can fill up the building on Sunday morning.  But if I preach too much about a loving, inclusive, forgiving God, a God who wants hungry people fed, sick people healed, lonely people loved, and excluded people included, I'm getting too political.  I'm tired.  

It's like glass in my head, all the time.  Can you understand?

Now, I know some folks are going to read this and say, "There he goes again, whining about everything."  Except, I'm not.  It's my reality.  It's my calling.  It's the work I've given my life to, moved my family for, put my kids in different schools for, sacrificed holiday meals and vacations for.  And, I don't mind that part.  I knew it was going to be like that going in.  

What I didn't expect, though, is so many of the actual teachings of Jesus seemingly falling on deaf ears, even among those who are part of the Church.  That, I didn't expect.  

I thought, naively, that as a pastor, I'd point out some injustice in the world, or the country, especially now, and say, "Here's what Jesus had to say about things like that," and everybody would be, "Yes, John, I think I can understand."  But that's just not the case so often.  Instead, I get called a libtard, and a host of other names, but I'm not going to name the ones who have said that to, or about me.  I find myself actually having to double down and say, "But these are letters in red!  They are words out of Jesus' mouth!"  I just don't get it, and I'm exhausted.  

I could actually understand if I were quoting Paul, or James, or John, or Peter, any of the authors of the epistles, because those are hard to understand on a good day.  But, letters in red, the Beatitudes, John 13:31-35, those kinds of things... I never expected to have to defend those.  Giving up is not an option, neither is leaving the ministry.  I've tried, twice, and it called me back both times.  

I think that what I need now, if I'm being open and transparent, is for someone to say, "I think I can understand."  What I get instead, are folks I know and love, cheering for and celebrating the cruelty that we are watching unfold.  They post comments or send me texts defending it, and saying things like, "I hope you can see the truth," or "Just give it time," or "Maybe if you'd think more about it you can see it's a good thing."  NO!  IT'S NOT!

I have thought about giving up, not in the sense that John Coffey was ready to, but I've thought about just not...  not saying anything about it anymore, and hope there is something left when the ashes settle.  I've thought about distancing myself from people who support the cruelty, mass deportations, cuts to aid, and things like that, and to a degree, I have.  I've withdrawn, and I admit that.  I don't text as much as I used to.  I don't respond as much as I used to.  It's safer that way.  

But, I wasn't called to be safe.  I was called to take a stand, and take a stand I will.  

I want to go back and watch the Green Mile again, and I think I have a copy on DVD somewhere, but for now, I think I'm just going to hold space for that one scene.  While I'm doing that, I want to keep the Beatitudes close...

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.  Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.  Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.  Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

And, as I write this week for Sunday morning, I can't promise this scene from the Green Mile won't make it into the message, because our text for Sunday is really a pretty simple one, and I'm tired.  There aren't many that are cut and dried, black and white, but this one kind of is, John 13:31-35...

Let me give you a new command: Love one another.  In the same way I loved you, you love one another.  This is how everyone will recognize that you are my disciples - when they see the love you have for each other.  

HEAD IN THE SAND

 I started this blog in 2010, and dang, does that seem a lifetime ago.  I think it was actually a Lenten spiritual practice that led me to begin writing as a form of spiritual meditation.  Most of what I write about does indeed have a theological bent to it, and for that, I don't apologize.  I view everything through the lens of theology, and that has caused me, at times, no small amount of heartache.  

I'm also an empath, but a classic Type A personality which is an odd combination to me.  I love the arts, but there is a certain satisfaction in sitting down to get our taxes ready for the CPA; organized, orderly, numbers all in a row.  My wife teaches Special Education and has told me, more than once, that if I were in school today I would be in her class.  Not because I'm not intelligent, but because she says I'm classic ADD and borderline ADHD.   Sometimes, I'm not completely sure that I don't have a few autistic tendencies, because I get overstimulated in crowded spaces, I hyper focus on some things and totally ignore others, I'm compulsive, and anxious, sometimes to my detriment.  

I've said that to say this, my mental health has always been something I've been aware of.  Some days, it's better than others.  Recently, not so much, and our current political climate is not helping.  My anxiety is through the roof and I feel helpless to bring it back under control.  I had one friend tell me, "Jamie, I'm worried about your mental health."  To which I replied, "Dude, so am I."  I had another friend tell me, "You just need to stop watching the news.   It's not healthy."  I agree that it's not.  I had another acquaintance tell me, "You've let your hatred for this man totally consume you."  I simply said, "I don't hate him,  I hate his actions."  

In 1998, I felt called into pastoral ministry, and that's when the wrestling match began.  Before 1998, I want to think that I was aware of the struggles of others, but I can't promise that.  I've never been intentionally mean to someone else, except this one time in middle school, and then this other time over a girl, also in middle school.  As an adult, and especially as a pastor, I've paid more attention to how my actions affected others, and the reality that their experiences have possibly not been the same as mine.  

You've heard it said "We're all on the same ship," followed by "No, we're not.  We're in the same storm, but you're on a cruise ship and I'm in a canoe."  I think there's a lot of truth in that.  Privilege is real.  I've never really noticed that until lately.  

Here's the thing, though.  I could stop watching the news, and I could stop scrolling social media.  I could turn off the reels, set down my phone, and pick up the third book in the Game of Thrones series that I was reading last winter.  I could do that.  I could tell the friends in my group chats, "Look, y'all, please stop sending updates in the group chat.  I'm trying to stop paying attention."  That wouldn't help.  It wouldn't solve any problems.  I don't even think it would help my anxiety.  

Yes, we are resurrection people.  I know this.  That is our hope as people of faith.  "Well, Jamie, if your faith is strong enough, it shouldn't matter."  It does matter.  A lot.  I quoted one of my seminary professors yesterday in the pulpit, "You do not have to fear those whose only power over you is death.  The absolute worst thing they can do to you is kill you."  I get that, and I have allowed that to guide me in my faith for the last 15 years.  But, still...

Sometimes I wish I had never answered the call to pastoral ministry.  I think life would have been so much easier.  I think had that been the case, I might just not care.  Immigrants getting deported?  So what? They shouldn't have come here in the first place.  Immigrant kids separated from their parents?  I don't care.  Their parents put them at risk by coming here illegally.  Drug overdoses?  So?  They shouldn't be doing drugs.  Cuts to programs that benefit the poorest among us?  That doesn't affect me any.  I work hard for what I have.  They can, too.  Trade wars?  So what?  Buy American.  We've alienated all of our allies?  That's no big deal.  We're the greatest country in the world.  

None of that, however, not one single thing, even gives a nod to the kingdom of heaven, and certainly not to the kingdom of heaven on earth.  "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name.  Your kingdom come, your will be done, ON EARTH as it is in heaven."  Almost every congregation I have ever served has prayed that prayer, as a body, every single week, but just look at where we are now.

Few things in this old life are certain; death and taxes being two of them.  I would also add this, it is certain that our faith will direct our politics, or our politics will direct our faith.  At the very least, our faith SHOULD direct our politics.  I will never, and I'll repeat that, never bring bipartisan politics into the pulpit.  Any pastor who does, and any church who allows it should lose their 501c3 standing.  That is not the place.  I will, however, continue to proclaim the teachings and examples of Christ, and if that seems political, it's because it very much is.  Another professor told us that all religion is political.  We are called to take a stand against oppressive systems and governments on behalf of those who have no power to stand for themselves.  We are called to speak out against injustices and resist evil in whatever form it presents itself.  Those, I will continue to do, even though it may carry some yet unknown cost.  

So, for those who wish I weren't so outspoken, allow me just a second for rebuttal.  

I wish I didn't have to be.  

I wish we lived in a world where we take seriously the teachings of Christ, and it shows.  I wish we lived in a country, that even though we aren't, acts like a Christian nation.  I wish the stranger was welcomed, the hungry were fed, the prisoners were visited, the thirsty were given drink, and the sick were healed.  But, we don't.  I'm not sure we ever have, or ever will.  That does not give me, or you, permission to stick our heads in the sand and pretend that what's happening around us, isn't.  It is.  And Jesus weeps.  

Jesus was a revolutionary and a radical, but it got him killed.  And therein lies the rub.  

You saw me hungry...

 I know that I haven't done this much lately, but every now and then, I just need to write.  Today is one of those days.  I process through writing, and have for most of my adult life.  During the darkest season of my life nearly 7 years ago, I was given the option of going to therapy to help process my life situation at the time, but I simply said, "I'm ok.  I just wrote a book."  And, I did.  I just haven't published it yet.  That being said, and since this is my blog, would you allow me a few moments to vent?  I will say up front, that it is exactly that.  I need to get a couple things off my chest, so if you're uncomfortable with that, I invite you now to stop reading.  

If, however, you would like to journey with me for a few minutes, let us begin.  

It's no secret that I'm a theologian.  I obtained my Master of Divinity from Memphis Theological Seminary in 2009, under the guidance of some of the most wonderful people I have ever met in my life.  Before I began my seminary journey, a well-meaning parishioner told me, and I quote, "Don't you go and let that seminary change you."  But I realiz
ed very quickly in my theological education that change is the very object of the whole process.  MTS is a fairly progressive seminary, nestled in the beautiful mid-town section of Memphis, and I dove head first into the process.  My theological education changed my life.  Allow me to repeat that, my theological education... changed... my... life.  Literally, not figuratively.  

For over 25 years, I have been engaged in pastoral ministry.  17 of those full-time.  In 2018 I made the decision to serve the Church part time, put back on my tool belt, and went back into business for myself.  I have served small rural churches.  I have served a county seat church.  I have served a fast growing congregation.  All of that has led to experiences that have shaped and molded me into the man, and pastor, that I am today.  

Add to that the fact that my wife and I have a daughter with a disability, and the result is that I may be more empathetic than what some would find comfortable in a 54 year old man from the middle of nowhere Western Kentucky.  And that, my friends, is the reason I needed to write today.  

I've had friends push back at me because I tend to post political things on my social media, but here's the thing... my theological training has caused me to look at everything, and I mean everything, through a theological lens.  My homiletics, or preaching, professor in seminary told us in class one night, "If you keep your homiletical minds on, everything you see will preach."  He is a giant among men, and when he takes the pulpit, he takes the whole room.  He was not wrong.  

Every social media post, every news article, every video clip... for me, is seen through the lens of theology.  I can't help it.  My education, my training, took place in a more progressive seminary than some, and because of that, I will never be the same.  Nor, will I ever view things the same.  

For example, people who are pro-life... So am I.  I loathe the very idea of abortion, unless there is a medical necessity which would cause harm to the mother, or being the father of two girls, other horrifying situations.  Yet over and over for the last two months we have seen one move after another from our government that is anything but pro-life.  We want the baby born, but we don't give a damn about what happens to it after that.  Let's just call it what it is.  We are pro-birth.  Forget medical care, or food programs, or education.  We just want it born. 

Dare I even mention immigration?  My ancestry is English/Irish, and maybe a little Scottish.  I'm white, except during the summer.  Being caucasian offers me opportunities that others have had to fight for, just for the simple fact that by some stupid, random act of nature, I was born with less melanin in my skin.  Somewhere around the early 1700's my ancestors emigrated to the U.S.  I don't know why.  I can't ask them.  They're dead.  But because I am Anglo by ancestry, there are certain struggles in life that I will never know.  It's stupid.  Racism is stupid.  Legal.  Illegal.  Undocumented.  Whatever.  I don't really give a damn what you call it, we are all part of the human family, and that by itself should be enough to merit humanitarian treatment.  

And what about "Well, we are a Christian nation"?  Don't even get me started.  I have friends who are atheist who are more Christian than many Christians I know.  You cannot, let me be clear, you cannot claim to be a follower of Jesus Christ and support mass deportations, or reductions in food programs, or removal of DEI policies.  You simply can't.  And I'll pause here to allow a moment for rebuttals.  I'll be waiting for scripture references, words in red, that show otherwise.  I'll wait.  

All of that reminds me of the scene in Christmas Vacation where Clark and the family had kidnapped his boss, Frank Shirley, and Cousin Eddie had brought him to their beautiful suburban home, or what was left of it, and when Mrs. Shirley showed up, she said to him something like, "You cut Christmas bonus?  Of all the lousy ways to save a buck."  

And that's what it boils down to, my friends.  Money.  Listen, I pay taxes just like everyone else.  I don't want my hard earned tax dollars wasted anymore than anyone else does, but here's the thing.  I don't mind paying taxes if it's going to help a single mom with four kids, or someone's grandma who needs surgery, or someone who's diabetic deal with an amputation.  I don't mind paying taxes to support our national forests, public parks, police, fire fighters, EMTs.  I certainly don't mind paying taxes to drive on roads without having to get a front end alignment every time I drive down I-24.  

What I do mind is my tax dollars going to folks who are running roughshod over the Constitution and the rule of law.  I mind, greatly, paying taxes that will give the top 1% huge tax breaks while I'm busting my tail to put supper on the table.  I mind paying taxes when I see the video of a mother, bawling, because her son is Type 1 and she can't afford the $1000 a month for insulin.  I mind that a hell of a lot.  

So, to my friends who have pushed back when I've posted something I felt to be counter to the teachings of Jesus, thank you.  Thank you for helping me solidify my faith.  Thank you for reminding me of my baptismal vows; to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever form they may present themselves.  Thank you for making me stop and think about why I do/say the things I do.  

Here's the thing, though.  I'm not going to stop.  My training and my baptismal vows simply will not let me.  I'm going to keep speaking out when our country is behaving like Gilead, and if you missed that reference, check out "The Handmaid's Tale."  I know that I'm probably already on some government watch list, but I'm not going to stop.  I simply cannot.  

When I knelt at the chancel rail in Lynnville UMC at 10 years old, and Paul Peck poured water over my head then said these words, "James Darren, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and The Holy Spirit.  The Spirit work within you so that you may become a faithful disciple of Jesus Christ," I took it seriously.  When Bishop Morris and Bishop Wills placed their hands on my head at my ordination and said, "James Darren, take thou authority to lead the church," I took it seriously.  

So, yes, I have chosen sides, and I don't apologize.  I will always stand with the oppressed and speak against the oppressor.  I will always stand with the down trodden and speak against injustice.  I will always stand with the excluded, and speak against those who would exclude.  But do you know what?  When I lay down at night, my conscious is clear.  I may not have been able to fix anything, but I know in my heart that I've done what I could.  My only hope is that one of these days, no matter how the rest of my days on earth go, I'll hear, "Well done, good and faithful servant.  Enter into your Father's rest."    

And, if you're more upset that I said damn twice and hell once in this post, than what the post was about,
thank you for making my point.  

I have a question...

I haven't done this in a while, almost a year, apparently, but this week there has been a lot on my mind, so I thought I'd write for a spell.  Folks who know me know that I grew up in a pretty good home.  I had a great childhood.  We grew up out in the county, theologically conservative, and middle class.  We never went without but we weren't wealthy by the country's standards.  We hunted, fished, grew a garden, played little league, visited our grandparents on Sunday afternoon, and church attendance was rarely an option.

When it would snow, mom would make snow cream for us, and there was pretty much always a meat and three with some kind of bread for supper.  Her biscuit bread is still the best.  We made homemade ice cream under the pine trees at my grandparents' house.  Mom and dad taught us right from wrong, dad taught me how to treat the girls, and more especially, how to not treat them.  We didn't take many big vacations, but I remember several camping trips and day trips.  Life was good, then.  However, there is one burning question that I've been wrestling with this week, and I'd love to ask my parents.  

"Why did you take us to church?"

I mean, aside from the fact that, at that time in history, pretty much everyone went.  It was just what you did.  I remember that little blonde brick building being packed on Sunday morning with neighbors, friends, and family.  I remember the women who taught me the stories of our faith when I was a kid, and then how Scotty continued those lessons when I was a teen.  I remember that day in June of 1981 when Paul Peck poured water over my head and said those words, "James Darren, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  The Spirit work within you that, being born of water and the Spirit, you become a faithful disciple of Jesus Christ."

What I don't remember is ever asking for any of that.  

Now, as an adult, and having answered the call to ordained ministry over 25 years ago, I wonder how different life would be had my parents taken us to the lake on Sunday morning, or hiking, or to the park instead of that little United Methodist Church.  Here's why...

I might not have ever asked to go to church, but apparently I listened while I was there.  I remember the little felt board in Ms. Marilyn's class that told the stories of the flood, Adam and Eve in the garden, and Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego walking through the furnace and not even smelling like smoke.  Or, the little study books in Ms. Mildred's class as we got a little older that gave us some of the other stories of our faith.  Or, Ms. Dortha's class in middle school, and Scotty's as I got old enough to start grappling with the reality of what it all meant.  I remember them.

Then God called.  

And I answered.

And I said, "I will give my life to serving you if that's what you want of me."

And I took it seriously.  Very seriously.  But, it is so very hard.  Which makes me wonder, if mom and dad had never taken me to church, and I had never heard, or never believed, would my life be easier?  In some ways, the answer has to be a resounding, "Yes."  It would be easier, because I just might not care.  

So, Mom and Dad, why did you take us to church?

Without actually asking them, here's the answer I've come up with this week.  The world needs kids who are taken to church whether they've asked for it or not.  Had they not taken me, and had I not heard, or believed, or answered the call to pastoral ministry, I might not care that the call of Jesus to love God with all that we are and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves is not being lived out in a lot of places or ways.  I might not care about the cries of brothers and sisters from south of the border whose lives are in danger.  I might not care about the plight of the LGBTQ community.  I might not care that systematic racism is still alive and well in one of the leading countries in the world, or that some basic human rights are being ignored.  I might not care about the vitriol being spewed by some, or the division in this country, or the fact that 90% of the world lives in poverty.  I certainly wouldn't care about some kid halfway around the globe that didn't get enough to eat today.  

But...they took me...

...and I did hear...

...and I do believe...

...and I did answer the call to ministry...

...so I do care, and that is the source of most of my problems as an adult.  I care.  

I care that people are hurting or scared.  I care that some are still being excluded.  I care that we call ourselves a Christian nation but outright deny the call of Jesus to welcome the stranger.  I care so much, that I'm willing to call BS on the whole notion that we are a Christian nation.  We are not.  If we were, the examples of Jesus would be more visible in our society.  They are not.  

I've wanted to hole up this week and hide, because dang.  I've written posts and then deleted them.  I've typed out text messages and deleted them.  I've probably posted some things I shouldn't have because those posts have caused problems, but I do it because I care.  I know that I won't change many minds, but if I can change even one, it's worth it.  I do it because I want folks who feel they are alone to know that they are in fact, not alone, and that someone cares.  I know I can't fix any of the problems we're facing now, and honestly I fear that it's only going to get worse, but mom and dad took me to church, so I care.  And because I care, I'm not going to stop fighting the good fight.  

Because mom and dad took me to church, I will continue to be an advocate.  It may be all I can do, but I can do that.  I can speak up for folks who feel as if they have no voice.  I will continue to take my baptismal vows very seriously, to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.  

As long as I have breath, or until God tells me to stop, I will keep going because I care...because mom and dad made me go to church.  

And as hard as it may be sometimes, I am so glad they did.     

       

Grief is holy

It's been a while since I did anything with this page.  For the last 15 or 20 years, I discovered that I processed through writing, but life got busy and time for that became less.  

Yesterday, my wife lost her mom.  She was the matriarch of the family, friend to countless people, Momma, Grandmommy, Gaga, sister, wife, and as the saying goes, the glue that holds the family together. We are all broken-hearted, and we grieve, but as resurrection people, not as those without hope.  

As I laid down to go to sleep last night, a thought hit me...grief is holy.  Let me explain.  

We grieve much because we love much, correct?  I think we can all agree on that.  If we grieve because we love, and if God is love, then God also grieves with us.  If God grieves, and if God is holy, then, by extension, I feel safe in saying that grief is a holy experience.  

At the death of Lazarus, Jesus wept.  He didn't pontificate.  He didn't offer platitudes.  He didn't pat the folks in the crowd on the shoulder and say, "This is part of God's plan."  He wept.  Jesus, the Second Person of the Trinity, the Firstborn of all creation, the Prince of Peace simply wept.  He grieved the loss of a very close friend.  It was a holy moment.  

Now, I understand that in times like our family is experiencing right now, and that your family has experienced as well, it's not easy to find any amount of comfort or peace.  We are way too human to be expected to find anything else.  Grief is a very human emotion, and very much merited when someone we love enters the church triumphant.  Yet, there they are.  Standing in the background, quietly off to the side, peace and comfort are watching and waiting for just the right moment to walk up and put a hand around our shoulders.  For me, that moment hit when I went to bed last night.  

It had been a very long day.  We've known this was coming for over a year, but didn't think it would come this soon.  I've been distracted at work this week, and it showed.  Steph, my wife, had been with her mom as much as possible for the last 10 days, hoping against hope that the doctors were wrong and that mom would rally.  She had gone home to take a quick nap when her sister called me.  I dropped my tools, closed the doors at the job site, and headed home to tell her.  As I sat beside her on the bed and whispered, "Mom's gone," what I saw was holy grief.  She wept, as any of us would, and she grieved much because she loved much.  Still, it was a holy moment.  God draws near to the broken-hearted.  

To a grieving family, folk will say things like, "You know heaven is celebrating today."  I get the sentiment, I respect what they're trying to do, but it's not helpful.  Heaven may be celebrating, but we're not.  And, do you know what?  That's ok.  It's ok to hold on to our humanity during times like this, even though, as the saying goes, we are spiritual bodies having a physical experience.  It's ok to allow grief to flood over us as we say goodbye to someone we love.  It's ok to weep, uncontrollably even.  It's ok to ask hard questions, like; "Why?' or "Why her?" or "Why now?"  or even "God, why did you let this happen?"   Yes, we are people of the resurrection.  Yes, we have the hope of eternal life.  But, and please hear this, we don't know anything about those things from personal experience.  What we do know, is that someone we love will never pick up the phone and call us again, and in our case, Steph's mom will never make her famous beefaroni again, or her Christmas lasagna, and that hurts.  

Now, to every coin there are two sides.  Grief is holy, but grief is not part of God's plan.  At least, I don't think it is.  And I know, with every fiber in my being, that it is not part of some perfect plan.  I'm convinced, and I may be wrong, but I'm convinced that in the first days of creation, God did not plan for us to grieve.  God planned and created the day and night, the fish of the sea, stars of the sky, sun, moon, animals, plants of the land, and finally us, but I haven't read in that account where grief was figured in.  Perhaps it's there and I just missed it.  However, after the fall, grief and loss found their place in the world.  

As a pastor, theologian, husband, father, and now grieving son-in-law, I ask this one thing of any who would offer their condolences, now or at any time in the future.  Don't say it.  Just don't.  I know you mean well, I know your intentions are pure, but please don't say things to us, or any grieving family, like "You have to accept this as part of God's perfect plan."  No, we don't.  I cannot believe this feeling was part of some original, divine plan.  Or, "God needed her/him more than you did."  No, God didn't.  We need them here with us, at least for a little longer.  We need to hear their voice, hug their neck, or drink coffee with them.  Please don't say, "God knows best."  I don't argue that theologically, but contextually it doesn't hold water.  Please don't say, "God needed another flower for his garden."  No.  God didn't.  If God was able to speak the entire world into creation, God could do the same with one more flower in the garden.  In fact, you don't have to say anything.  Just be there.  Be that peace and comfort standing off to the side, just waiting for the right moment to slip an arm around a grieving child's shoulders.  Just hold them and let them weep.  Be a safe space for them to be honest with the things they're feeling; with the unknowns, the pain, the anger, the denial.  Allow them the space to process as they are able.  

Why?  Because I feel that is exactly what God would do.  Weep with us.  That's all we ask.  And, actually, God, in the person of Jesus, did just that.  

As for me and my house...

Have you ever had a friend, family member, or someone else you genuinely cared for who was about to do something that you knew was going to be painful, but there was nothing you could do but watch and hope for the best?  If you have ever experienced that, you have a basic understanding of how it feels to be clergy in the United Methodist Church right now.  

Unless you've been living under a rock for the last couple of years, you've no doubt heard about the mess that is currently going on inside the United Methodist Church.  Some folks are saying we're splitting, but we're not.  We are, however, splintering, and the splintering is leaving shrapnel stuck in people I know and love.  

I am one of those life-long United Methodists.  When dad was discharged from the army and mom and dad moved back here from Columbia, South Carolina, I was a mere nine months old.  The cross and flame is all I've ever known.  When Steph and I married, we embarked on a journey to find "our" church; not mine, not hers, but ours.  We went to mine for a while, a little country UMC.  We went to hers for a while, a small town southern baptist church.  We had plans of visiting others.  Her church turned me away from the communion table one day and I told my new bride, "I'm going back to my people and I'd love for you to come with me."  She did.  That was 30 years ago.  

Five or six years later, I had an experience one night coming home from a fishing trip.  A few days later, after I got home from work, I sat there reading the newspaper, folded it up and put it in my lap.  Then I looked at my wife, and mother of my daughter, and said, "I have to go back to school."  She said, "Oh yeah? What for this time?"  I looked at her, not believing the words were even coming out of my mouth, and said, "I think I need to go to seminary."  

"To be a preacher?"

"Yeah.  I think this is something I'm supposed to do."  

"Then I will follow you wherever this leads."

So, at 28 years old, in 1999, I wasn't only a member of this denomination, I was about to begin the journey into ordained ministry as a United Methodist clergy.  I began the process, and in 2011 was ordained as an elder in full connection.  I have served small country churches.  I have served county seat churches.  I have served large churches.  A few years ago I cut back to part time, we bought a house in our home town, and I decided that my girls had lived in their last parsonage.  Now, I'm serving part time and believe this is where God wants me for this season in my life.  So, as I said before, this is all I've ever known.  

Now, to the mess.  

"Disafilliation." It's a word that's on everyone's mind right now who calls themselves United Methodist.  It has recently found its way into the church I love and am currently serving.  When a church begins the conversations about leaving the denomination, that leaves the clergy appointed to serve that church having to decide what they are going to do.  Are they going to leave the denomination and stay with that church?  Are they going to leave that church and stay with the denomination?  It's a painful decision to make and one that must be done prayerfully, considering what is best for the kingdom and our own families.  

See, United Methodist clergy are not like Baptist clergy or Church of Christ clergy.  We are not hired by the local church.  We are sent by the Bishop to serve a particular community through a particular congregation.  We are appointed (sent) one year at a time, and each summer, either reappointed to that congregation, or sent to another one.  It's a system with its advantages and disadvantages, and some days, it's flawed at best.  But, it's a wonderful way to mix the gifts and graces of each pastor and each congregation.  

That being said, I, like several of my colleagues, find ourselves in a state of limbo.  We want to remain faithful to our calling, and now we're just waiting and watching for God to let us know how that's going to play out.  We love the congregations we are serving, but we can only serve them as long as they remain United Methodist, or... we surrender our credentials and leave the denomination.  We have to choose.  Let me just tell you from personal experience, that is a gut wrenching decision to have to make.  

It's gut wrenching because it doesn't have to be like this.  Because of personal agendas, strong personal opinions, false information, a myriad of "what if"s, and good ol' American individualism, no one is asking what is best for the kingdom of God in all of this.  It's only about what I want as an individual.  Churches are being split.  Witnesses are being damaged.  The world is being proven right about the "C"hurch in many instances because selfishness is leading many of these decisions.  Conversations are being had in our parking lots, behind closed doors, and in secret, and it is causing damage that only the Holy Spirit can heal.   

In the words of Paul, my brothers and sisters, this should not be so.  

Hopefully, it is not too late for the church I love and am currently serving.  Hopefully, we can see that we are better together.  Hopefully, we can become the home for all of the United Methodists in our county who did not want to leave the denomination, but their churches had the 2/3 vote anyhow.  But if not...?

Well, if not... I have a decision to make.  No, my wife and I have a decision to make.  

It reminds me of Joshua 24, and this may get me into trouble because someone, somewhere, is going to read my next few lines the wrong way.  

In Joshua 24, Joshua has gathered all the tribes together and begins to tell them what God is saying to them.  If you flip over to Joshua 24:1 and read through verse 13, you get a good list of all the things God had done for the people of Israel.  Then in verse 14, God throws down the gauntlet: 

"Now, therefore, revere the Lord and serve him in sincerity and in faithfulness; put away the gods that your ancestors served beyond the River and in Egypt and serve the Lord.  Now if you are unwilling to serve the Lord, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served in the region beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living, but as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord."  

Now...  before anyone starts throwing things or calling my bishop, allow me to tell you why that's the verse that came to me when I began to write today.  

We have become distracted.  We have lost our focus.  And by "we," I mean many in the United Methodist Church.  We are not necessarily serving the gods of our ancestors or the gods of the Ammorites, but the gods we are serving are our own wants and desires and our own agendas.  In short, the gods we are serving in all of this, is ourselves.  

Some disafilliate over the issue of homosexuality, but don't want to talk about the numerous scriptures about second marriages leading to adultery.  We want to point out the speck in others' eyes without paying one iota of attention to the log in our own.  We want to judge others as long as no one brings up our pet sins.  Etc.  Etc.  Etc.  

My brothers and sisters, this should not be so.  

After Jesus had left the Mount of Olives one day and was teaching in the temple, a group of angry men dragged a woman who had been caught in the very act of adultery to him.  How did he react?  They knew how they wanted him to react, but how did he react?  "Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone."  What happened?  One by one, they quietly slipped away until there was no one left but she and he.  "Where are your accusers?  Didn't even one of them condemn you?"

"No, Lord," she said.

"Neither do I.  Go and sin no more."

As for me and my household, we have decided that there are way bigger things to be upset about.  We have decided that it is not our place to judge others because we cannot throw stones either.  We have struggled, prayed, and cried, trying to decide where we feel God may be calling us next.  With 23,000 people starving to death in the world every day (approximately) and the church arguing over the things we're arguing over, we (the Church) have left our one true love.      

Adding to that the fact that many of the churches that are disaffiliating are doing so because they have been fed false information, forced onto them by some with an agenda, just makes it even worse.  Folks aren't even leaving over legitimate reasons.

What's the answer?  I honestly don't know.  Folks are going to leave.  Folks are going to stay.  But that's the beauty of being a Wesleyan people; we don't have to think alike to love alike.  

So, if disafilliation is a conversation you are having, I implore you to listen past the rhetoric, gossip, half truths, and blatant lies for that still small voice of God calling to you through the chaos and inviting you to step away for some quiet conversation.  

As for me and my house... we're United Methodist.  

 

After the storm

 It’s been 6 days now since our little corner of the world was turned completely upside down.  The initial assessments have been made.  Debris is being cleared.  Rescue and recovery have been going nonstop.  Volunteers have come in by the droves to assist us and help where they can.  Water and electric are being restored. Donations are continuing to pour in, and for all of this I am grateful.   

This morning, I woke up with heat and lights for the first time since Friday morning. Like so many others, I’m experiencing a certain amount of survivor’s remorse because we were so close to the main path, but relatively unscathed.  This has caused no small amount of theological wrestlings and reflection.   So, as I’ve done for years, permit me a few minutes to process all this through my keyboard.   

Why?   Why did the storm track shift a little less than a half mile from what we were expecting?   The original track was taking the tornado directly over our house, instead, it came by less than a half mile to our south and east.  

How?   Surviving this storm was certainly not because of anything I did.  No one can stand against winds knocking on 200 plus miles per hour.  I did everything I knew to do in order to protect my family, but short of installing an underground bunker, there was really nothing I could do.  It seemed to be the luck of the draw, and even typing that makes my stomach turn.  

As we listened to tornado rip through neighborhoods and downtown as it passed our house, my first thought was “Thank God.  We survived.”  It was all I could think to do.  Now for the theological reflection.  

Paul, writing to the church in Thessalonica told them to give thanks in all things, because that was the will of God. (Paraphrased). We should.  Sort of.  

A lot of people are struggling with the events of last Friday night, and rightfully so.  I’m struggling with it.  I do give thanks for many things that did or didn’t happen last weekend, like so many others are right now, and I do believe that there is much, for which, to be thankful. However, there is one phrase I keep hearing that haunts me.  

“I’m thankful that God protected me.”  I appreciate the sentiment behind statements like that, but I’d like to take a minute to unpack some of the theology in it.  

“I’m thankful that God protected me,” alludes to the idea that God picks and chooses who receives protection and who doesn’t.  We don’t mean anything by it when we say things like that, other then genuinely offering thanksgiving that we’re still here.  I totally get that.  I would encourage us to reflect what it says to others, though. 

As I came out of our hallway after the immediate threat had passed, I stopped and said “Thank you.”  Meanwhile, in the couple minutes it took to pass by us, lives were lost not a half mile away.  The thought of that is gut wrenching.  If I were to say I was thankful God protected me, it would insinuate a divine hand redirecting the path of the storm away from my house, and directly over others.  I can’t serve a God who does that.  I just can’t.  A god who picks and chooses who survives and doesn’t is not worthy of our worship.  

It was just a fluke of nature that I’m even here to write this morning.  

That being said, theology is messy.  Part of the curse of a theological education is that, in our training, we are forced to recognize and wrestle with things of this very nature.  The “Why?” questions.  The “How?” questions.  And, to do so in a way that honors our God and our fellow humans.  

So, for all those who feel this week that God’s hand of protection has been removed, let me assure you that God’s heart is breaking right along with yours this morning.  Nature is a brutal force at times, and were God to directly intervene, saving some while others perished, the theological ramifications would be endless.  

The sucky part in all this is that there just aren’t any easy answers.  A friend of mine said something yesterday that stopped me in my tracks.  He said, again paraphrasing, “God wasn’t in the disaster, but lives in the response of the people to the disaster.”   

This week I encourage all of us to find something in the aftermath of this storm for which to be thankful.  I encourage us to let empathy guide our words and actions.  

God is here.  Now.  With you.  With me.  With us.