1 John 21: Reconciliation

This past Sunday, was Reconciliation Sunday within the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).  I used the following video to introduce the topic, to visually remind us why we needed to continue to do the hard work of reconciliation, and to engage the text in a new way.  Several folks have requested a copy of the sermon (thus, the post here)....but my guess is, it wasn't the sermon that moved them, but the Word of God, the video that brought to light our collective perceptions, and the Holy Spirit. 

It was a powerful day of worship...and I give thanks, that I could be part of it, in some small way.

The video:


The scripture that was used:

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; but when we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment, because as he is, so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because he first loved us. Those who say, “I love God,” and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.

And the sermon:

For a lot of folks, Reconciliation Sunday brings about a lot of eye rolling and questions as to whether or not talking about race relations is really necessary in this day and age. Most folks don’t mean that in a bad way…it’s just, especially for those who grew up in the 50s and 60s, there’s a sense that we’ve done the “race thing” and we’ve made our reparations. Everything’s equal and right. And even though we know the statistics aren’t perfect…it’s better than it was….and we wonder if maybe we should just let it go. Doesn’t talking about race, discrimination, and reconciliation, just bring up the bad stuff?

Well, yes. Yes to all of it. Yes, it’s better than it was. Yes, we’ve made strides in equality (praise be to God!). And yes, sometimes talking about race and acknowledging discrimination and praying for reconciliation does bring up the bad stuff. Yes. But when we quit talking about it…when we quit acknowledging the continued journey of equality and reconciliation…we rob the story of its fullness.  

I shared a video in the Youth Sunday School class this morning, about a woman by the name of Chimamanda Adichie, an African storyteller and author from Nigeria. In the video, she tells of growing up as a child, reading British and American books. An early reader, she devoured these books about blond hair, blue eyed heroines who frolicked in the snow, while eating apples. When she began to write her own stories…at 7 or 8, in pencil, illustrated with crayon drawings…her heroines too, where blond hair, blue eyed, and talking about the weather while eating apples.

It didn’t occur to her, that a heroine in a book, could be anything other than that particular character, because that was the only character she had known…that is, until she was introduced to heroines written by African authors…who (and I quote), “had skin the color of chocolate and kinky, untamable hair that struggled to get into a ponytail…who ate mango, and frolicked in the sun.” It wasn’t until she was introduced to a new story, that she was able to have a fuller picture of who she was, of what literature could include, and how she might be part of that: a fuller, richer, more kingdom-like story.

But even more poignant for me, was her recount of another story. Chimamanda was raised in a typical, middle class family, and as is the norm in middle-class Nigeria, they had a house servant. The only thing her mother ever told her about their “house boy” was that he was poor. So poor, that her mother would send him home on holidays with yams and rice, old clothes and blankets. And  Chimamanda could only pity him. Because that’s where the story ended. With abject poverty.  

But one day, her family went to deliver some goods to the house boys family and when they were invited in, the house boys mother showed them a beautiful basket – one of the most beautiful she had ever seen – that he had woven. The poor house boy, was an artist. A creator. And she hadn’t known that, because those around her…those in power…and decided that his story ended -- not with creativity or hobbies or joy or even life outside of being a house boy -- but, with poverty.

That story struck me, because I do that, every day. I end people’s story. When someone comes into the church office, dressed in a suit and tie…I assume that person is here to sell me something. I start to form their story, before they even sit down. They’re pushy and fake and hard and I feel disdain rising up in me, as soon as their shiny shoes cross the threshold. And I end their story.

Or when one who is dressed in less than appealing clothes and a body odor that greets me at the door…I assume, before they even extend their hand out of formal obligation, that they need something from me. And as they tell their tragic story…for the part of their story that they share, it is always tragic, because at some point, we taught people that it had better be…when they tell their tragic story,I feel an odd mixture of pity, exasperation, and distrust. And I end their story. 

Or when I struggle to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak English and that thought slips into my mind, “I wonder where they’re from,” because surely they aren’t from around here and must be from Mexico City or Mumbai or Bangkok and I wonder how they got here. And I begin to make assumptions…I assume they must be here illegally right (even though only about 20% of all first generation immigrants are undocumented), I begin to assume they must be on government assistance (because that’s what I’m told), and I assume they must be lonely or poor or tired or dangerous or lazy…

And just like the characters in our video…I end their story with flashes of what I’ve been taught by television shows and radio hosts and my grandparents and my friends and the always tragic news that I read in the newspaper. I end their story with assumptions of who a person is, before I even know their name. I end their story, even when I know there must be more.  

And THAT is why we need to continue to talk about race and reconciliation.

Chimamanda continues to tell a story about going to university. Her roommate was an American…and she talks about their first encounter, and how her new roommate was shocked that she spoke English (despite that fact that English is the official language of Nigeria)…she talks about how her roommate assumed that she wouldn’t know how to use a stove…and when asked to hear some tribal music, her roommate was disappointed when she produced a recording of Mariah Carey.  

And Chimamanda says this, “What struck me was, she had felt sorry for me, before she even met me. She had a default position toward me, as an African…a patronizing, well meaning pity. My roommate had a single story of Africa…a single story of catastrophe…there was no possibility of being similar to her, no possibility of feelings being more complex than pity, no possibility of us, as humans, being equals.”

Chimamanda continues, saying, that if she hadn’t grown up in Africa, she too, may have assumed that Africa was little more than a beautiful land with majestic animals and incomprehensible people, fighting wars, dying of aids, and waiting to be saved by a kind white foreigner. Because that is the single story of Africa…that is the end of the story. And it is the story that most of us, have known our whole lives.  

People become a single story, when you show one image, over and over again. So that the single story of those from Costa Rica or Venezuela or Porta Rico is one of undocumentation and manual labor and government assistance and old women wrapped in blankets, praying the rosary.  

The single story of those with chocolate brown and dark brown and black skin becomes one of gangs and guns and enemies and handouts and neighborhoods harboring criminals.  

Or the single story becomes one of terrorism and subjugation of women or discount cigarette stores and taxi drivers. The single story becomes one of machismo and tourism, diabetes and alcoholism… need I go on? We know how the stories end.  

We know how they end, because that’s the only ending we see on the news and when we watch "Law and Order" and from our politicians and in our history books and our blogs and twitter and facebook.

But what if I told you, that the single story that would be told about you, would be one of consumerism and indulgence and radical Christianity. What if the end of your story was your hatred for gays, lesbians, transgendered peoples and bisexuals. What if your story was only one of war and the authority to convict without just cause. Or to burn crosses in another’s yard. Or even white picket fences and stay at home moms who greet their husbands with a cocktail in hand. I suspect you would be aghast. Heartbroken. You would want others to hear the other side of your story. And maybe, if you heard that other, ended story enough…that story of consumerism and hatred and pleated dresses…you might begin to believe it yourselves. You might begin to believe that you were that story.  

But what if my story and the story of Maria, who stopped by the office on Friday to wait for a cab, had more similarities than differences. What if, when we started talking…her in broken English and me trying so hard to remember my 9th grade Spanish…what if we found that we both loved dogs and ice cream and that Fall was our favorite time of year.  

What if we both talked about how we’re not sure what we think about Syria, other than pain for life lost, when with wrinkled brows, we wonder if American intervention was the right thing. Or that it scares us when we hear about young people dying of heart attacks and we both smirk about the fact that maybe we shouldn’t love ice cream as much as we do, because talking about death, when it’s so close to you, is uncomfortable no matter what color your skin is.

I don’t even know Maria’s last name…but I know her story is more than what I’ve been told…it’s more than immigration or poverty or praying the rosary. And vice versa.

We’re told over and over again in the Bible, that love has the last word. We are commanded to love…even when it’s not easy. We’re told that love supersedes law and that love is Godly. We’re encouraged to love in ways that are radical…meaning, we’re to love in ways that expand the story…and we’re told that we’re to do this, because such love was offered first, to us. But I know that’s hard…

We hear this story…this story of Love, once, maybe twice a week…maybe even everyday for 15 minutes during our morning coffee or meditation time if we’re committed to that sort of thing...but we hear a different story…a story that seems to be the antithesis of love….a story that is shrouded with suspicion and anxiety and hatred and judgment and dishonesty…24 hours a day.

But we know that the story of love, matters. We know that the story of love writes new endings. Reconciles one to another. Brings about new change, new hope, new life. So we must. We must live as if we believe it. Live as those who love, first. Not because it’s a good idea. Or it might be helpful. Or maybe something in our world might change. Though all of those things would be true. But because Jesus Christ has demanded it of us. Because he believed in the inbreaking of the Spirit of Love. And if Jesus believed that love mattered…that hearing the end of the story, was as valuable as the beginning…then I think we ought to listen to that word, head that word, and live that word. Thanks be to God…

May peace and reconciliation be made known,

rt

Tangible: I Have A Dream

Fifty years ago today, one of the most well known speeches in the world, took place.  "I have a dream..." by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr..  Today, preachers quote it, activists live it, children recite it, and a world yearns to know its truth.

And the people dream on...hoping, praying, yearning for a day, when equality will be made known in ways that are tangible and real and life-giving and hope-filled.

If you would like to listen to the speech in its entirety...click below.

Luke 10: Intentionality

A snippet (granted, a long snippet!) from the sermon preached on August 4:

As they went on their way, Jesus entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work myself? Tell her, then, to help me."

But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her." - Luke 10:38-42

..........Because in that moment…the doing, has become more important than the who, that we’re doing for.  The work has become about the task and appeasement and the "proper thing" …rather than about pleasing God and hearing Jesus’ call and breathing in the Spirit in all that we do.  

It is NOT that Jesus doesn’t want us to work…to do and be the active embodiment of the Divine in the world.  It is, rather, that when we do these things…we do them remembering whose we are and who we are…people of faith, called out by Jesus Christ, to do the work of the Kingdom, here on earth.  That is who we are.  

If the bread is burnt, because we are talking to one of God’s children…that’s okay.  If the roof leaks for one more month, because one of God’s beloved needed grocery’s to feed her family…that’s okay.  If the kitchen is left dirty one night, because those who have found respite in God’s house, were celebrating one year of sobriety…that’s okay.   If the bulletins don’t get done because another was comforted in their grief…that’s okay. 

And on the flip side….

if we bake bread, so that others can eat…that’s good too.  If we fix the roof, so that others can worship comfortably in this place…that’s good too.  If we clean the kitchen, so that we can offer hospitality to the least of these…that’s good too.  If we print bulletins, so that another can lean in closer to God on a Sunday morning…that’s good too. 

It’s when we forget the heart behind what we do, that it becomes meaningless, glorified busyness. 

Sometimes I fear that we are becoming Martha’s.  So focused on the doing…of what comes next for Cherokee Christian Church…that we forget to be church.  We busy ourselves with worry and nervous chatter and hand wringing rather than the prophetic, embracing, table work that we have been called to.  And we start to stand in the doorway and call to Jesus, reprimanding those who don’t work and function and busy, the way we do. 

And somewhere along the line, we forget that Jesus is beckoning to us to do the “better thing.” To forget this – the country club with its “right way” of doing things and its cleanliness and perfectly baked bread – and instead, to give ourselves to Jesus in all its rawness and messiness and expectedness. 

One of the options before us, as a body of Christ, is to sell this building…with all its needs and busyness and bigness…and move to a smaller building…something that will accommodate our small size a little better.  But I’m going to be honest here…if we simply pluck up and land somewhere else… we’ll still fizzle out.  We will.

Unless we can remember that which brought us to this place to begin with – that deep, heart yearning that continually points to Kingdom, to Christ in our midst.  We must recapture the passion of the Spirit.  We must find Jesus and sit at the proverbial feet of the one who is calling.

It doesn’t seem like much really…but it also can seem like everything.  Because it takes a pretty significant shift.  Suddenly, we don’t just “do” church… we “become” church.  We don’t “go” to church…we are church.  We aren’t just Christians on Sunday…but are Christ’s followers everyday.  We don’t just work because we have to…we work because we are called to. 

There is an article written by Rachel Held Evans, that’s being passed around on Facebook, about why the Millenials (that age group of folks born between 1980 and the year 2000) are leaving church.  She talks about how the church gets so busy getting wrapped up in the business of church, that they forget that Jesus isn’t found in the coffee bar or the pastor wearing skinny jeans or the LCD screens.  And she says,

“You can’t hand us a latte and then go about business as usual and expect us to stick around. We’re not leaving the church because we don’t find the cool factor there; we’re leaving the church because we don’t find Jesus there. Like every generation before ours and every generation after, deep down, we long for Jesus.”

We have only to look around on a Sunday morning…and we can probably rightly assume, that this isn’t just a millennial issue. 

There is a world that longs for Jesus…and they won’t tie themselves to custom and they won’t care if the bread is burnt and they probably won’t even notice if the LCD screens are blank….but they WILL notice Jesus and how we treat each other and how we listen to the Spirit and how we move an do and work for God. 

So before we make any moves, sell any buildings, continue to busy ourselves with this…we need to find ways to connect with Jesus.  To leave the busyness behind and be church.  Let us hear Jesus, when he says, “…you are worried and distracted by many things; there is only one thing that matters,” and know all the way down into our toes, that the one thing that Jesus refers to, is him.  The Divine.  The Hope.  The Restoration.  The Promise of New Life.

Let us live as those who hear that word, head that word, and live that word. Let us give our whole selves to God…our service, our work, our prayers, and our stillness…

Mark 4: With Story

Then Jesus said, “God’s kingdom is like seed thrown on a field by a man who then goes to bed and forgets about it. The seed sprouts and grows—he has no idea how it happens. The earth does it all without his help: first a green stem of grass, then a bud, then the ripened grain. When the grain is fully formed, he reaps—harvest time!

How can we picture God’s kingdom? What kind of story can we use? It’s like a pine nut. When it lands on the ground it is quite small as seeds go, yet once it is planted it grows into a huge pine tree with thick branches. Eagles nest in it.

With many stories like these, he presented his message to them, fitting the stories to their experience and maturity. He was never without a story when he spoke. When he was alone with his disciples, he went over everything, sorting out the tangles, untying the knots.

+Mark 4:26-34(MSG)

I don’t know who Samuel Johnson is, other than he was an Anglican and an English poet, but I’d like to buy him coffee.  Because in two sentences, he has articulated the plight of mainline Christianity, the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)…and maybe more specifically, Cherokee Christian Church.

It’s not new news, that there are some denominations and some independent congregations who have no problem telling others what to believe and how to function in the world.  Be it marriage equality, immigration reform, Biblical literalism, or the “place” of women…someone, somewhere, in the world of religion, is making a bold and courageous statement about something (even if it’s NOT the bold and courageous statement I would make). 

And because these congregations and denominations feel comfortable making these statements about the “big issues,” they have little hesitation in making bold and courageous statements about the micro-issues, like…weather or not a congregation should sell their building or if they should change the color of the paint in the hallway.  Oh sure…there’s always some moaning and gnashing of teeth for any change…we are a people who value homeostasis…but for most of these apostolic and theologically conservative expressions of faith, when change is in the air, it’s just common knowledge that the “buck stops” with the leader…the priest or the pastor…even if you don’t agree. 

Either fortunately or unfortunately, that is not the case for the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).  It would be nice sometimes though, wouldn’t it?  If the region would just come in here and tell us what to do…no more thinking about it or praying about it or bloomin' discernment. But that’s not how it works for us. 

Instead, we have a long history of looking unilateral decisions right in the eyeball and then…coming up with every possible objection, alternative, voice, and argument we can think of…until we’re so tired of talking about it, that we give up…retreat…and end up back where we started.  Which is: stalled.

And it’s where we’re at today.  As Cherokee. 

You’ve been Unbinding Your Heart and waiting for New Beginnings for over three years now…and in the past six months, I’ve listened to all the reasons why new ministry ideas won’t work.  I’ve listened to why old ministry ideas, tried once and having failed, would never work again.  I’ve fielded calls and emails wrought with anxiety about how to keep “this” going, but when I’ve asked what the caller on the other end of the line might do to help, I’ve been greeted with silence.  I’ve listened to the yearnings for fellowship and service and study and yet, when offering opportunities for fellowship, service and study, few of those who have asked, are filling the seats.  I’ve heard complaints about the music and the bulletins and the air conditioning and the yoga studio and the AA group and the kind of toilet paper that can be found in our bathrooms…

...but I have not heard us talking about the disproportionate suicide rate of these kids who are returning from war or the alarming number of homeless, run away children who are gay, lesbian, or transgendered.  I have not heard us talk about the lack of support for the working poor or the lack of advocacy for those seeking citizenship in our country.

To be frank, I haven’t heard us talk about any of the kinds of things that Jesus talked about.  And if we wanna be church…well, then we ought to be talking about those things….not the “used to” things or the “that’ll never work” things or “we’ve done that before and failed” things.  But the things that matter.

My guess is, you wanna talk about those things.  But don’t know how.  Or don’t wanna get into it, in case you offend someone. Or you’re afraid of the work it might require.  Or maybe you didn’t know that the church was a place where you could talk about those things.  Or maybe you’ve gotten so used to talking about all the other stuff… you’ve gotten so used to talking about saving yourself, and all the micro-ways we try to do that (by controlling who uses the building and how, or what sort of toilet paper we should buy)...maybe you gotten so used to talking about that stuff, that you’ve forgotten how to talk about the stuff that matters.  I don’t know.

But I’m gonna be blunt here and say, we’ve gotta make a shift, as the whole Body of Christ, from those who love this church…to those who love God, who serve Jesus, and who trust the Holy Spirit.

I get it, you guys….I really do.  We love this place.  I probably don’t love it like some of you love it…because I didn’t raise my children in this place or walk my daughter down the isle or grieve my spouses death in this place.  I haven’t sat in the same pew for 45 years, looking at the same storied window through all the hills and valleys of my life, like you have.  I haven’t tasted communion on my tongue and wondered where it’s been my whole life, like you have, in this place.  But I get it.  Our places matter.

So some of you walked out last Sunday…hurt, pained, and despondent.  Some of you walked out, saying things like, “fine, let’s just sell it  [the building] and be done with it.”

As if that were the only option.  And maybe it is…though that will depend on you.

Because there are some other options out there.  But they will require your participation.  They will require you to put aside your old conversations, and have new ones.  Because we just can’t sustain “this” for forever.  The way it is, right now.  If we do…we will die.  And Cherokee Christian Church will die. 

I mean, the brass tacks are this: There are 47 of us worshiping, on average, each Sunday…in 28,000 square feet.  It costs us about 46,000 a year, just to maintain the building.  That means, no big repairs, no major improvements, no assessability shifts, no facelifts.  But more importantly, that also means we don’t make big moves….we don’t engage in big ministries.  In part, because we don’t have the money (though this is a misnomer).  But I think mostly, it’s because we don’t have the energy. 

We may not even realize it, but a whole heck of a lot of energy goes into anxiety.  And anxiety kills dreams.  It just does. 

So it’s time to put the dream killing aside, and start telling our story again. 

A story of a tiny seed being planted in the middle of a growing little town, that grew so big, that it nested eagles. A story of widespread community outreach and intentional world outreach and tiny hands learning what it means to do outreach.  A story of celebrations and farewells and welcome.  A story of hope and work and prayer and pain and laughter…….all branches of a story, planted by one little seed. 

The seed that was planted here in 1950 has grown from tiny sapling, to aged tree….and in a lot of ways, the soil is no longer fertile.  The time we live in, does not assume full pews and full offering plates, and the needs of the community do not necessitate our inclusion.  And so WE need to fertilize the great and mighty tree. 

At the Wednesday Night Discernment Study…near the end of the series, we did an activity, which asked each member of the study to dream.  I think we had 10 people there that night (which, for those of you who are quick with your math, know…that’s about 1/5 of our congregation)…and once they divided up into pairs, they took some time to formulate their dreams.  Returning to the round table to share, we found out quickly, that each dream included nurturing children.  Which just makes sense, when you’re housing eagles nests, right.

And so, that dream has been taken to your Elders…that dream of caring for the least of these…and they’re talking about it and giving life to the dream.  Today, following worship, chances are good, they’ll start to make some tangible decisions about that dream as they’ve spent the last month intentionally praying about what sort of “hat hanging” ministry Cherokee might engage in with passion and commitment.

Cause see, Cherokee, over the years…has become a little complacent.  And that happens….it’s not a critique.  It’s just reality. The fervor of being a new church wears off….or the ease of being a big church dissipates…or the excitement of a new leader grows stale. 

Complacency just happens. It happens in our relationships…in our jobs…even in our hobbies.  But especially in our churches.  And it’s killing our churches.  Especially those of us in denominations who value the voice of the congregation and who seek to find common ground together.  We work so hard sometimes to find our common ground that we sometimes fail to ever touch the ground!

But if we don’t hang our hat on anything, other than being together on a Sunday morning… we’ll never grow.  Sure.  But more than that…we won’t live out our mandate – our command from Jesus our Lord – to love and serve our neighbor as ourselves.

I know you don’t wanna be that church, who “just” keeps their doors open.  I know your history…I know your hearts…and that’s not you.

Because, you’re that mighty tree -- that glimpse of the Kingdom of God -- who has nested eagles!

But it takes work.  And say what you will about being tired or wanting to pass the torch. I betcha, if you can release the energy you spend on being anxious about what the future of the church might look like….and put that energy in being present for that hat hanging idea that the Elders are excited and encouraged by…I bet you’d be surprise how much energy you have.  I bet you’ll be surprised how high you can hold that torch still.  I bet you’ll spend more time being filled with joy, than perfecting your furrowed brow.  God just works that way. 

It’s why God is SO good.  Because every time we say can’t or won’t or no way or I’m too tired….God’s says, “I have a different ending to that story.” 

God says, I give you a tiny little seed….and I will turn that tiny seed – in to a mighty tree, big enough and strong enough and good enough and wide enough to nest eagles.  And I’d like for you to be part of it!

God doesn’t need our help….  But God…from beginning to end…desires our help, our investment, our relationship……so much so, that we have been named co-creators.

Don’t you wanna be part of that God-activity?!  Don’t you wanna go from this place, knowing that whatever tiny seed you might sow today, has the potential to house eagles?! 

Let’s give passion a go.  Let’s give action and reaction and engagement with God’s mission a go.  Let’s write a different ending to our story.  We may still not be able to hold on to “this”…we may still find ourselves in need of major changes and needing to make difficult decisions…but at least we’ll have been living out and telling a story worth hearing.  Not a story of little church, that sputtered to a stop…but a story of a church who housed eagles, till the very last day and the very last moment.  Let’s be that church.  We have a story to tell.  And it’ll take all of us, to tell it.  Amen.