Sunday Mornings Are for Everything and Nothing

Sunday mornings are for 
scrambling eggs
or puzzling 
sitting with a good book
by an ancient mystic 
whose words are maddening and mindful
calling you to the center of life’s castle 
and ponder the silkworm

Sunday mornings are for breaking bread
and sipping juice
gathering around a table 
to color 
maybe pray 
and listen to littles share their favorite story
from the Good Book 
or last night’s animated film

Sunday mornings are for sleeping in
or rising early 
to walk or run longer and slower 
to grab the favorite blanket 
or kneel in front of lacquered pew
or sit beneath a tree
with feet kissing the ground 
to anchor the spirit in its earthen origins 
and eternal endings 

Sunday mornings are for everything
and nothing 
gathering and resting 
in liturgy wherever you might find it 
able to carry you into renewed meaning 
for the Mondays ahead 

Dust: Our Truest of Names

Last year on Ash Wednesday, I innocently wrote:

Friends, to be reminded of our earthen nature is sobering yet laced in hope. It binds us to the creation and one another. And just as all of us are dust and to dust all of us will return, God makes beautiful things out of dust...and carbon ink...and all of us. On this Ash Wednesday, remember your dusty, ashen self is so very loved and good. May this word carry you for the 40 Days of Lent, too.

I was only a few months removed from my first tattoo and a week or so away from my second. I was reflecting on the artist’s reminder that the ink is made of carbon, the same stuff we are, he shared. At the time of that post, I thought the art on my left tricep was a minor amount of discomfort for a lifelong, humanizing symbol of my fragility and finitude. It was therapeutic. I also thought Ash Wednesday 2020 was merely the beginning of a 40-day liturgical pilgrimage of confession and lament that culminated in Holy Week and Easter.

Then COVID. 

Lament is hardly a strong enough word. 

This year, the reminder of our origins in the dust of the earth needs very little repeating. The Lenten road ahead may be something we have already felt accustomed to for the last 12 months of isolated struggle. We have had more than enough reminders of death, dying, and the temporal nature of our earthly existence. The numbers do not lie. The statistics are haunting. The Lenten journey of 2020 has extended well past the liturgically prescribed forty-days and I want out, off, and some good old fashioned ordinary time with all the green paraments. 

A few ministry colleagues even wrote this may not be the year to linger in Lent. 

For some, maybe not.

Yet I recently read the words of poet, Thich Nhat Hanh, which unintentionally helped me find the sacred goodness in Ash Wednesday in such a time as this:

Please call me by my true names,

so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once,

so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names

so I can wake up

and the door of my heart could be left open

the door of compassion.

                            (Call Me by My True Names)

Yes. Ash Wednesday is the regular calling of ourselves by our truest of names. 

Created. Dust. 

Ash Wednesday is when we gather our cries and laughter, joys and pain, together at once, in those clay bowls filled with the remnants of last year's palms. Ash Wednesday is when we remember that to be called by our common name, ash, is to be awakened to our collective humanity as the door to compassion opens wider still. We may actually need Ash Wednesday all the more in light of what feels like perpetual Lenten trauma. 

The second tattoo I received last year, gregorēite /γρηγορεῖτε, means stay awake, similar to Thich Nhat Hanh’s poem and the words of Christ (Mark 13). Little did I know then how much I would need this carbon reminder on my right forearm. Little did I know how much the dust of our humanity would rise up in the next 12 months, like those Sunday feast days that are respites from the Lenten fast, and open so many doors of compassion in the midst of the shared despair. 

I am not sure there has ever been a time in my life when to be called dust has felt so heavy and hard. I resist it.

I am not sure there has ever been a time in my life when I have needed to cling to this liturgical word any tighter. I need it.

Maybe that's because it is our truest of names. May this name lead us both to walk through and open wide the doors of compassion. 

"The LORD knows 

how we were made;

the LORD remembers 

that we are dust."

Psalm 103:14

Confess: #AdventWord Day 11

In the Christian tradition, confession has multiple layers, each a variance of truth telling. To confess is to acknowledge a pattern that needs to stop, a departure from the Divine Way and God’s dreams for wholeness and cosmic flourishing. We all need confession. 

To confess is also to affirm, to give the green light to what is in rhythm with the holy and the good, what is as it should be. These are often referred to as affirmations of faith. We need these as well to mobilize us to go about God’s life-giving work in the world. 

I wonder, though, if Advent is a liturgical yellow light. Advent is an invitation to slow down as a cautionary pause, to confess both the ways we see departures from the Word-Made-Flesh and to affirm the sure signs of God with Us. Stop. Go. Slow. Yes, even the traffic light bears witness to the incarnation. 

Flowers or Fear: A Sermon Considering the Lilies of the Fields and Birds of the Air

This sermon was preached oN August 11, 2019 at The First Presbyterian Church of Rahway. 

I was running the streets of Baltimore, the city and surrounding suburbs I called home for most of my childhood, when I came to an abrupt stop. It was not from a cramp, despite being on mile three of a four-mile morning run. It was also not because I nearly ran into traffic or a rodent had crossed my path.  Actually, I didn’t encounter a single one the entire time I was in Charm City for Big Tent, a bi-annual Presbyterian Mission and Ministry conference.  

Rather, I stopped because I noticed two florists creating an elaborate bouquet that framed an ordinary park bench just outside the Inner Harbor. The yellow sunflowers, white baby’s breath, and greenery burst with color and formed a long floral train that extended out onto the brick sidewalk. In the center of this brilliant sculpture bursting with life were the engraved words, “Baltimore: The Greatest City in America.” And I had to catch my breath. And I had to ask why the display of hope. The gist of their response, our city has gotten a lot of undeserved and undignified attention from people in places of power and we wanted to combat that narrative with one of beauty and possibility. 

This is gospel, my friends. These floral artists transcended rhetoric laced in anxiety, reclaimed the worth and dignity of their beloved city, and used what they had to actively participate in an alternative story of love and generosity. They even dared others to strive and seek after it, too. As I read through Luke 12 this week, this image of a flower-draped bench ran through my imagination. Yes, they were arranging flowers with a fragrance that overwhelms fear, the essence of Jesus’ words to us this morning.  But before we go any farther, let’s pray.  

I have always loved this passage of Scripture. Mostly because I need it. Worry and anxiety, like for many of you here, hang around me like those summertime gnats you endlessly swat yet make no progress in eliminating. Whether finances or health, the environment or our children’s future, we want to know all well be well and secure. This is partially why we named our oldest daughter Lily, as in “consider the lilies.” The intent was for every time we looked into her eyes, much like when Jesus called the disciples to look at the birds of the air and the flowers of the fields, to be reminded of God’s provision and breathe away angst and fear.  

The gospel lesson for this morning comes to those in need of the same reminder. Jesus is addressing his disciples who lived in the midst of a land occupied by an oppressive Roman Empire. These disciples, most who were first-century Palestinian Jews, knew all-too-well a narrative of scarcity that bread anxiety and fear. Anxious fear snaked throughout the region on roads lined with the crucified, patrolled the land by way of armed Roman soldiers, and funded oppression through unjust tax systems and economic practices. And the temptation of many was to play into the hands of this imperial narrative and quest for self-preservation, often at the expense of their neighbor. In many ways, this is what led to Jesus’ betrayal and crucifixion. Yet, if we look to the parable that precedes our gospel lesson, Jesus offers a strong warning not to be lured by this imperial greed rooted in angst by building barns to hoard goods. Instead, look to the birds and consider the flowers, stay focused on the alternative Way marked by love and generosity, self-giving, and assurance that you belong to a God who stamped God’s image of beauty and wonder upon you. No empire, ruler, system, failure, dollar, or difference can take that away- never, not ever. This is the essence of Jesus’ words, which have at least three movements we will briefly engage this morning: Worry. Worth. Witness.

First, worry. “Do not worry about your life,” Jesus says.  The translators would have done better to say, “do not be anxious.” Worry is too tame for the message Jesus is elevating as both prophet and preacher, even more so a companion along the Way. Worry is a real thing, yes. I worry about whether I will be able to get my kids to eat a vegetable. Just one. I worry about running out of data on my cell plan. I worry about making it to work in time each morning.  Anxiety, however, comes from a much deeper and debilitating place; anxiety is a bedfellow to fear.  In the NYT bestseller,Where the Crawdads Sing, Delia Owens writes about the experience of Kaya, the protagonist and marginalized young woman growing up in the marshes of North Carolina, “Finally the fear came, from a place deeper than the sea. Fear from knowing she would be alone again. Probably always."  Anxious fear comes from a deep place of bondage, isolates us from community, and lures us into narratives of impossibility and not enough. So Jesus offers a counter-narrative, “do not be afraid, little flock.” Yes, a flock of the faithful; a community where you belong and need not fear daily bread.  This is the picture Luke paints throughout his gospel, as noted by biblical scholar Justo Gonzales, a jubilee church as collection of sinners and saints not bound by fear or scarcity and trusting in the God who sustains their every breath. 

I love how Luke is constantly moving back and forth from old stories to the one presently being told. The word used here for anxiety is the same used when Jesus spoke to Martha. Busy adhering to household tasks a patriarchal culture imposed upon women, her sister, Mary, dared to bust through the social norms and sit at the feet of her Teacher typically reserved for men. In that moment, Jesus says, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious 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.” Do not be anxious, Martha. You belonghere, in the very place you have wanted to sit but have always been afraid to enter. Come, nobody can take this belonging from you. I imagine Jesus offering Martha a small flower- a lily, maybe- in the face of her fear; a floral witness to her worth in the midst of far too many reasons to be anxious and afraid.  This is the second movement of Jesus’ word to us this morning: do not worry; reclaim your worth.

Friends, much like the first century world, worry and anxious fear snakes throughout nations and neighborhoods, even our own, and consumes human dignity and disrupts pursuits of beloved community. This anxious fear makes us wonder if there is any place where we belong or if anyone, let alone God, cares about our existence and daily struggles to survive. We live in a time when rhetoric from people in power aims to make us anxious about neighbors and reduce their worth, including those who courageously seek safety in this nation as they flee violence from another. These same neighbors then live in increased angst about their value, wondering if they will ever know freedom or see their children who have been ripped away at the border. Anxiety is fanned as people of color are blamed for social ills and their worth distorted as our nation's original sin of racism continues to spread. Angst about difference and the loss of power and privilege is even what leads many to take up arms through mass shootings in Dayton, El Paso, churches, schools, garlic festivals, nightclubs, and more. We then become increasingly anxious and wonder if there is any place we can go or send our children safely. And we grieve, as both the church and state are anxious and afraid, so fail to do the real work necessary to protect human worth and make our communities safer. Then there are the cultural narratives of scarcity that tell us we do not have enough, will never be good enough, and have not achieved enough. It is no wonder anxiety and depression continues to affect so many Americans, especially our young people. In my work, I also see this trickle into congregations who are anxious about the changing world and whether they have the relevant resources to make any impact in their community. Yes, institutional and ecclesial depression is a real thing. In the midst of it all, we dare breathe in the good news and life-affirming words of Jesus, do not be anxious or afraid, little flock, you are of great worth,as we look for flowers in the fields, maybe even offering some fresh cut ones of our own to those in need of assurance that they belong and are loved. In this way we banish anxiety and move towards a trust in God’s dreams for a better world that are very much alive- as alive as the birds of the air. This was the work of the Baltimore florists, who knew a different story than what had made headlines, refused to be victimized by anxious fear, and leveraged what they had to celebrate the worth of their city. This sort of work is the hallmark of church. 

                                                                                           

Which leads to the final movement, Jesus’ call to work out our witness, “And do not keep worrying. For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, strivefor his kingdom and these things will be given to you as well.” Yes, strive after the kingdom of God. Luke uses the word zētēi, to actively pursue and seek out.It is the same word Jesus will use in the parable of a woman who turns over tables in pursuit of a single lost coin, “she strivesafter it carefully until she finds it.”  Zētēi. Actively pursue it, move beyond the grip of anxiety in a world laden by fear, reclaim the dignity and worth of self and neighbor made in God’s image, and strive towards the kingdom of God already here and still to come- with whatever resources the Spirit has given you. 

                                                               

Friends, anxious fear is a barricade to God’s generosity, justice, and joy in the Holy Spirit. It can lure us into the lie that the way things are will always be and we are forever alone. We then store up for ourselves whatever we need (or believe) to preserve me and what’s mine, closing us off to our neighbors and opportunities to embody God’s jubilee in the world.  This is true for individuals and congregations. Yet, the audacity of discipleship is to zētēi God’s life-giving dreams for the world God so loves. We actively pursue it until we find it fully awakened in Rahway and Baltimore, El Paso and Dayton, New York and Philadelphia. We do so even though it cost us much, or everything, aware our treasure is stored elsewhere.  

                                       

I recently returned from an eight-day venture to the Holy Land with 35 other pastors and ministry leaders. I have often been asked about the sacred sites, my time in Galilee, or touching the Western Wall. What was most striking to me, though, was the abundance of structures and symbols rooted in anxious fear, which has seized this land from the beginnings of human history. Now, thirty-foot walls, lined with video surveillance and snipers, keep Palestinians out of Israeli settlements in Bethlehem and the West Bank and create a 21^st-century rendition of apartheid. As you travel throughout the region and touch the wall, while some say it is a security measure, you sense fearful angst. Yet, if you have eyes to see and ears to hear, there are stories of those who cast out anxiety and strive after the kingdom of God. There are people like Daoud Nassar at Tent of Nations, whose family lives on land they have owned for well over 100 years. A community of Palestinian Christians, their mantra is, “we refuse to be enemies.” As Israeli settlements continue to suffocate the farm, cut them off from running water, electricity, and access to public roads, fear continues to be the tactic to acquire their property. Yet Daoud Nassar and his family resist through remaining. They refuse to be seized by anxious fear or surrender their worth. One afternoon, Daoud shared a story about how recently, a military raid burned down 250 of their olive trees. They shared the story, not laced in fear but in assurance God would resurrect hope somehow. And God did, through a UK-based Jewish community. Empathizing with the story of suffering evoked by anxious fear, they purchased 250 new olive trees and came to visit and plant them alongside their Christian neighbors. I bought an olive tree that day, too. “We believe in justice,” Daoud said to us. “And we believe we will see the Son of Justice rise again.”  Until then, they strive after, zētēi, God’s kingdom here and still to come, the son of justice peaking over the horizon.  

                                                               

I believe this is the central call of Jesus’ words to the disciples nearly 2000 years ago. This is the message for us today. In the midst of increasing narratives of anxiety and fear, those that tempt us towards isolation, self-preservation, not having enough, feelings of insignificance, and the othering of our neighbors, dare we strive after an alternative community of inclusion that reclaims the worth of all people, whose value is even greater than the birds of the air and lilies of the fields. Dare we plant olive trees or fashion flowers, whose fruit and fragrance overwhelms fear, whether in Palestinian vineyards or Baltimore park benches or small towns in North Jersey. Yes, flowers or fear is our question of discipleship. This is the question I leave you with, faithful of Rahway: flowers or fear? Assurance or angst? What will you plant as you strive towards the kingdom of God?

--------

A Poetic Benediction

overwhelmed 

by the thought of it all 

and my call 

unclear 

so i fear 

and i stall 

to do anything 

pondering everything 

as if the world depended upon me 

it does not 

i hear  

as a whisper 

so clear 

right here 

you cannot carry it all 

that was never my call  

to you  

or anyone other 

find one thing 

that makes your heart sing 

by the love you bring 

where you are 

right here 

in the now 

is how you will find 

you at your best 

and your mind at rest 

from trying to overcome it all 

that was never your call  

The Church as the Humus of Heaven: Jesus' Parable of the Sower and Some Wendell Berry, Too

(A Sermon on Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23)

There is a well-known Wendell Berry poem that has hung in my office for nearly 10 years. The title of the poem, Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front. 

A portion of it reads: 

Ask the questions that have no answers. 

Invest in the millenium. Plant sequioas. 

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant, 

that you will not live to harvest. 

Say that the leaves are harvested 

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years…

Practice resurrection. 

I am far from a farmer and have a very faint green thumb- my greatest claim to a harvest being the six peppers I grew on our front porch and used in my southwest omelet a few years ago.  Eggs compliments of Wegmans. Seeds from Target. Yet there is something intriguing about not only the agrarian imagery of this poem, but also the very title. Farming framed as a revolt, a sustainable movement of subversion.  The farmer is marked as one gone mad, celebrated for raising unconventional questions, investing in the next generation, putting faith in a slow yet emerging process, and prioritizing sowing in such a way that the fullness of the harvest will out live even the farmer. 

Wendell Berry is an environmental activist, novelist, and prophetic poet who continues to live in simplicity with his wife in rural Kentucky.  His writings have captured the imaginations and underscored movements of change for generations. And Wendell Berry is known for his agrarian imagery. 

He’s in good company. 

While since the industrial revolution we have preferred machines, devices, and factories, the bulk of human history, and even most of the world still today, identified with fields, farms, and living off the land. Jesus was not exempt. It doesn’t take long to see that, in many ways, Jesus was a first-century rendition of Wendell Berry whose pithy statements were laced with references to grain and the harvest, reaping and sowing, wheat and chaff, mustard seeds and invasive plants. These were far from tame motifs, they were culturally relevant nuances of God’s kingdom intended to grow a movement of change called discipleship. 

Jesus’ use of the agrarian world and all its organic metaphors underscore God’s dreams for the world that come by way of a slow yet urgent process with a harvest not only for this generation, but also the generation to come. This mode of divine activity called the gospel is beautiful and frustrating, intentional and local, nourishing yet demanding, even requiring the ability to adapt and evolve in light of changes in conditions.  At it’s core, Jesus’ leaning on this imagery reminds us that the gospel, God’s Way in the World, requires our on-going participation and ability to dig our hands deep into the soil of this world God so loves. 

Nowhere is this more prevalent than in today’s parable, the first of many Jesus would tell to frame his budding movement called in Matthew’s Gospel, the kingdom of heaven. In fact, today’s Gospel story is so central to Jesus’ teachings that it is the only one he actually unpacks and explains for his disciples.

This makes it so much easier for the visiting preacher.

Matthew locates Jesus as seated seaside where he addresses the massive crowds outside of the home. “Listen!” Jesus shouts to those on the beach. "This message is for you, every last one of you.”

Much like the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus announced blessings to those most ignored and dismissed, Jesus again casts wide the net of God’s welcome.  "There was this sower of seeds who had gone mad, scattering seeds here, there, and everywhere- liberally tossing possibilities for new life everywhere this sower went.”

I was reading this parable with fellow leaders of the Presbytery the other day when one of the pastors raised a shared point of frustration, one possibly whispered down the lane by those on the shore that day two millennia ago. 

“This seems to be a pretty irresponsible farming practice,” she said. "A wise sower would have surveyed the land and known that this particular seed falling on a path, in the rocks, or among thorns wouldn’t work. They would have limited their planting to the good soil from the get go.”

That would work with conventional planting, sure. But if we know anything about Jesus and the kingdom of heaven he announced, it is less linked to convention and more reflective of madness. As Paul would say in 1 Corinthians, “the gospel is foolishness to those who believe.” 

Matthew’s inference is clear: Jesus is the Mad Sower of Seeds of this great liberation front called the kingdom of heaven. This Sower shows no judgment or partiality, in many ways his grace is frivolous, overly generous, and borderline insane.  

Which is good news, for the seeds of the gospel have been liberally scattered throughout the generations and to virtually every corner of the earth. The seeds have even been scattered so freely and without hesitation that they have been planted in each of us here today.  The Psalmist says it this way, “Your wagon tracks overflow with richness…”(Psalm 65:11).

The question for us, is what kind of soil will we be? 

Will we dare enable the seeds of God’s Word of love and generosity, welcome and hospitality, justice and commitment to those frequently labeled as other to burry deep within the soil of our individual lives, take root in our communities of faith, and sprout a harvest of hope and possibility in the neighborhoods we call home?

Will we dare look beyond the walls of our buildings to see that this Sower of Seeds is scattering fertile possibilities within the hearts and minds of our neighbors and in the communities our churches were first planted within?

Will we become like that two-inches of humus beneath the tree that is able to nourish a rooted discipleship able to withstand all that seeks to slow the growth of God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven?

These were the questions posed to those on that first-century beach. These are the critical questions posed to us today. 

In many ways and at various parts of my life, I have found myself more able to identify with the first three categories of dirt that Jesus describes than the final harvest. There have been times when I have failed to understand the kingdom and even allowed the birds of doubt, despair, apathy, and fear to swoop in and snatch the seeds of gospel possibility off my pilgrim path. Other times I have been the one whose faith is fickle, like seed falling on rocky ground or among thorns, unwilling to sink my roots deep into expressions of discipleship because it felt too risky, irresponsible, or may cost me my reputation, privilege, job, or financial security. Maybe you find yourself today as though you are merely feeding the birds, among rocky ground, or being choked by thorns of this world.

Hear the good news of the gospel this morning- Jesus continues to scatter the seeds for the harvest among you and your neighbors still. The invitation remains to be that fertile soil whereby a rooted discipleship can sprout, when the Word of God grows within you and flowers expressions of justice and love alongside neighbors near and far.

While Matthew’s gospel certainly speaks to Jesus’ personal invitation to individual discipleship, this parable is also a corporate, communal call. The parable of the sower is a charge to the gathered people of God, namely the church, to scatter as a subversive movement of frivolous love and generosity, a liberation front in the face of all that seeks to snatch, choke, and wither the world God so loves. The parable is a nudge to be the humus of heaven on earth able to reap a rooted discipleship in Jesus- the Mad Sower of God's love, justice, and grace.

As our Presbytery has leaned into our 300th Anniversary we have spent significant time reflecting on our beginnings, when God’s Spirit first scattered seeds in the hearts and minds of the faithful who came to this nation and founded what is the American Presbyterian Church. In each generation, the faithful were challenged to ask unconventional questions, leverage new incarnations of the gospel initially marked as madness, and pray for God’s Spirit to sprout unique expressions of God’s love and justice alongside the numerous congregations in the communities they were called to serve. In many ways, what began three hundred years ago was like the two inches of humus underneath the tree that created the necessary nutrients for the witness of the Presbytery to sustain growth and faithful witness over many generations and in light of the relevant issues of each passing age.

Whether in the midst of the civil rights movement or the AIDS epidemic, slavery or pervasive poverty, racism or immigration, suburban sprawl or the rise of the millennial generation, rapid change in technology and social media or increased violence, churches in this Presbytery for 300 years have been dared to ask, will we as individuals and communities of faith be fertile ground for new possibilities or will we allow the lure of power, privilege, and the institution choke our witness? Will we allow the joy we first found in being called to follow Jesus frame relevant and prophetic work in the world or will we bail the moment discipleship costs us something? Will we understand Christ’s call to rooted discipleship in the midst of our current socio-political context when many are looking for assurance that chaos is not the final victor and the concerns of the elite are not all that matter or will we allow the seeds of God's grace to be snatched up by the birds of doubt, despair, or worse- irrelevance?

Over the course of three hundred years, the faithful of this Presbytery have demonstrated that we indeed are fertile soil with the seeds of our witness rooted in God’s grace made known to us in Jesus Christ. Yes, we have much to confess and more than enough reasons to lament our being complicit throughout history. We also must acknowledge the fertility of our faith that has extended across generations. Churches have been planted by emancipated slaves ordained to ministry; congregations have been launched in immigrant communities and alongside people experiencing chronic homelessness; hospitals, schools, nutrition programs, and Christian camps have been birthed and mentoring ministries developed in at-risk communities; once vibrant churches have discerned a call to close and reshape their structure so to best engage their changing community with the gospel.  One church even opened up their fellowship hall and vacant Sunday school rooms to artists previously incarcerated and now looking to turn their lives around as they impact the next generation through the creation of elaborate murals that envelop the walls of public elementary schools. 

The Sower of Seeds has been at work scattering seeds of resurrection possibility in this presbytery and in many ways we have been fertile soil for rooted discipleship. I say all this not as an ad for our Presbytery, but because such fertility of the faithful sprouted this congregation in sixty years ago.  This is your storied history, too.

My prayer is that we would continue to allow the seeds of God’s word to take root in our individual and corporate discipleship so that God’s Spirit reaps a harvest among us thirty, sixty, and hundred fold. Along the way, I pray we also remember we are neither Sower nor seeds, rather the soil God’s Word is being rooted within as we live into the hope we call the Gospel.  I pray we view our neighbors near and far through the same lens, for God is scattering seeds of goodness and possibility within them, just as well.

I end by recalling the final line of Wendell Berry’s poem. Two simple words: Practice Resurrection. I had never thought about it before, but resurrection is even an agrarian image, new life out of what was once dead. We are only able to practice such resurrection because Jesus, the frivolous Sower of Seeds, has already been raised.  That’s madness. That’ gospel. That’s the root of our discipleship from one generation to the next. Let it sink deep within you as the humus of heaven on earth.  Amen.

Give Me Jesus: Brief Post-Election Reflections and an Alternative Pledge of Allegiance

I fell asleep last night to the lyric, "in the morning, when I rise, give me Jesus." I woke up to the same internal melody. For many, today is a day of great lament. Fear and angst realized and amplified in a way that deeply affects their lived realities and the concerns of their friends, family members, and neighbors near and far. These must be heard and given space to breathe. For others, today is a day where they believe a particular age of reform or return is about to come. I am doing my best to hear them, too.

But I find this quite difficult.

While I woke in a fog and continue to wrestle with what may be ahead, especially for my children, women, people of color, the LGBTQ community, immigrants, refugees, and those seeking asylum in this nation, one thing is certain, I pledge allegiance not to a nation or an office, a political dream or a flag. Rather, this personal anthem, written eight years ago, holds just as true now as it did then and will tomorrow and for the next four years, too.

Church, God is with us and the Spirit inviting us still. People of God, Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. Amen.

On Psalm 66 and Contentment of Creation: A Lyric for Seasons of Angst and Uncertainty

“All the earth worships you; they sing praises to you, sing praises to your name.” (Psalm 66:4)*

Non-anxious

without fear

worry nowhere present

only worship in the air

creation not naive

the earth fully aware

still content, unwavered

assured of God’s tender care 

listen to the birds

consider lilies in the fields

amidst chaos and confusion

not phased by despair

each tree a proverb

landscapes as parables

wisdom in their spoken words

if we listen, they are there

fear not

fret not

sing

God is here

everywhere.

*This was the lectionary Psalm for the 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Proper 23 of Year C. Photo taken at the Colombia River Gorge in Portland, OR after the 222nd General Assembly. 

The Lord's Prayer for Days Such as These

Written after reading Julia Esquivel’s, "Lord’s Prayer from Guatemala" in Threatened with Resurrection.  Esquivel's contextual and liturgical expansion of Jesus' prayer provides a framework and formative praxis for individuals and communities called to prayer in the midst of the varied human struggles and related incarnations of the gospel. Work through each movement of the Lord's' Prayer and add what the Spirit may draw to the forefront of your heart and imagination...

Our Father of the human family

whose image is reflected in every person

young and older

here and there

across all nations, neighborhoods, colors, and class

Be near.

Our Father of children who walk into schools each day,

of teachers who guide and instruct them

of youth who do not have access to quality education

or the arts

vulnerable to a life of less and not enough

Be near.

Our Father of those who only know of violence and war

who flee countries

mothers and children

looking for refuge in a land not their own.

Bear near.

Our Father of those who know guns are too readily accessible 

whose loved ones have been killed

their bodies lay in the streets 

taken by weapons purchased with great ease

legally

quickly

tragically

to others profit. 

Be near.

Our Father of First Nations People

those who have been forced to live as strangers 

in their own land

Water Protectors who care for creation

more than oil, innovation, and profit margins

Be near.

Our Father of those who fear the red and blue lights 

who have to speak with greater caution when stopped

afraid they will be perceived as threat because of their pigmentation 

many slain by those called to serve and protect

in front of their children

Be near.

Our Father in heaven

your name is not hallowed on this earth.

But the names of the fallen are.

The endless names attached to hashtags and movements

headlines and calls to action

Hallow your name in the wake of their suffering.

Hallowed be your name through the witness of the persecuted church

the faithful present and in ages past

who have remained true to the call

even at the expense of their very lives 

claimed by those whose god is Terror

whose faith is Vengeance

whose doctrine is Hate. 

Hallowed be your name through the bodies of the oppressed

the wounds of the neglected

the cries of those who have struggled for far too long 

in neighborhoods quarantined from opportunity 

fenced off from privilege

brushed under the rugs of the elite.

Hallowed be your name in young people who struggle with visions of the future

who take on debt just to keep up with the new normal

youth who are uncertain about what is to come

yet know what is cannot remain

Hallowed be your name in their voices that long for change

seek a better way.

Hallowed be your name in the work of teachers and activists

doctors and lawyers

pastors and church leaders

theologians and contemplatives 

social workers and peacemakers

artists and writers

protesters and community organizers

leaders in political office who dare to see their work as truly serving the public good. 

May your kingdom come where there is malnourishment in the developing world

and in our own nation

where food banks have surplus in preservatives and nutrition comes at a high cost

May your kingdom come through urban gardens

Your will be done in community dinners.

May your kingdom come in calls to peace

your will be done in non-violent means to conflict resolution

May your kingdom come through the church willing to surrender old programs and paradigms

as we develop holistic initiatives that benefit those beyond our buildings

your will be done in faithful use of the arts alongside those in recovery

others re-entering after years of imprisonment

May your kingdom come in parts of the earth

Philadelphia

Coatesville

Baltimore

Baton Rouge

Chicago

Cleveland

LA

Chester

San Diego

Tegucigalpa

Mexico City

Aleppo

Bogotà

Juba

Tel Aviv

Palestine

Pakistan

As it is heaven.

Give daily bread to those hungry for medical care

steady employment

education

safety

fair treatment

women who long for equal pay and equal opportunity

immigrants looking for housing, employment, and full-inclusion as citizens in this nation.

Give daily bread to those unable to make mortgage payments

who fear foreclosure

cannot make rent

others whose families are torn by addiction and infidelity.

To children who wonder their worth

sit alone at lunch

whose mothers or fathers are absent

Give them their daily bread of love and comfort

adults who will remind them they are valued and mean something to somebody

to You.

Give daily bread of freedom to those who live under surveillance

hear sounds of war out their bedroom windows 

who have lived under the thumb of dictators and leaders thirsty for more power

protect us from the threat of tyranny.

Give daily bread of liberation to those who have remained behind closet doors

in house

church

family

countries

where orientation is used as yet another means to exploit

exclude, and rob another of their dignity. 

Give daily bread to those who truly need a slice of bread

or fruit

or fresh vegetables

that many of us waste without conviction

Give them our daily bread when we have weeks worth of sustenance 

taken for granted and left to rot. 

And forgive us when we ignore the cries and concerns of our neighbor

forgive those who have not heard us when we have been in need

move us towards the day when debts do not lead to another’s capital gain

Forgive us for the way we have constructed systems fueled by debt

worked by indentured servants

who go from earned degree to endless streams of bills never to be fully paid. 

Forgive us our debts.

Lead us to jubilee rooted in more than enough for all. 

Lead us not into the temptation of individualism 

separating ourselves from your call to the common good

to the needs of our neighbor

Deliver us from the evil of hoarding what we have for ourselves 

alone

Deliver us from the evil of us and them language

from religious language as undergarments of political systems, 

legislation, and powers bent on the privileged

quests for empire expansion

Deliver us from the myth of national security that leads us to build higher walls

wield more weapons of war

and label persons of varied ethnicities and religions as perceived threats.

Deliver us from the evil of greed and rhetoric that bullies our opponents 

those with whom we disagree.

Deliver us from the temptation to seek the destruction of our enemies

versus pursue reconciliation, redemption, and diplomacy

at. all. costs. 

Deliver us from divisions in church and home, 

neighborhoods and nations. 

Lead us out of the temptation to despair alone. 

For yours is the kingdom of dreams and new possibilities

welcome and universal love.

Yours is the power that leads others towards wholeness and hope, 

not leveraged at the expense of another.

Yours is the glory that draws all towards a brighter day when all will have enough 

when the one human family will gather together

to worship

to work

to embrace

to celebrate

that our labors were never- not for one instant

in vain.

All will be well.

All will be right again.

Amen.