The Dog Dooner Cafe'

The Resurrection

2010-04-06T06:00:00.001-05:00

Oh, the rush with which the forgotten mind awakens
Under the day a well of dark where color dwells
Until it learns the art of light and can reveal,
In neglected things, the freshness thought darkens.

With grey mastery distance starts to blur the horror.
Already the days begin to set around the loss.
The after-silence of his death becomes porous
To the gossip of regret that follows failure.

Through the cold, quiet nighttime of the grave underground,
The earth concentrated on him with complete longing
Until his sleep could recall the dark from beyond
To enfold memory lost in the requiem of mind.

The moon stirs a wave of brightening in the stone.
He rises clothed in the young colours of dawn.

"The Resurrection" © John O’Donohue. All rights reserved
From the collection "Rosary Sonnets" in John O'Donohue's larger collection, Connemara Blues

image used by permission, Digitial Image Archive, Pitts Theology Library, Emory University

The Crucifixion

2010-04-02T10:21:00.001-05:00

When at last it comes, it comes in silence;
With no thought for the one to whom it comes,
Or how a heart grieves itself and loved ones
With that last glimpse from its fading presence.

Yet it is intimate, the act of death,
To be so chosen, exposed and taken.
Nowhere untouched. But death wants you broken.
The soldiers must wait ages for your last breath.

With all the bright words, you are found out too,
In agony and terror in vaulted air,
Your mind bleached white by a wind from nowhere
That has waited years for one strike at you.

A slanted rain cuts across the black day.
It turns stones crimson where the cross is laid.

The Crucifixion © John O’Donohue. All rights reserved
From the collection "Rosary Sonnets" in John O'Donohue's larger collection, Connemara Blues
Image used by permission, Digital Image Archive, Pitts Theology Library, Emory University

The Agony in the Garden

2010-04-01T12:58:00.002-05:00

Whatever veil of mercy shrouds the dark
Wound that stops weeping in no one, cannot
Stop the torrent of night when it buries thought
And heart beneath the black tears of the earth.

Through scragged bush the moon discovers his face,
Dazed inside the sound of Gethsemane,
Subsiding under the weight of silence
That entombs the cry of his terrified prayer.

What light could endure the dark he entered?
The void that turns the mind into a ruin
Haunted by the tattered screechng of birds
Who nest deep in hunger that mocks all care.

Still he somehow stands in that nothingness;
Raising the chalice of kindness to bless.

The Agony in the Garden © John O’Donohue. All rights reserved (www.johnodonohue.com)
From the collection "Rosary Sonnets" in John O'Donohue's larger collection, Connemara Blues
Image used by permission from The Digitial Image Archive, Pitts Theology Library

A Sermon for Holy Saturday

2010-03-18T15:21:00.000-05:00

This semester, I'm taking a course entitled "Preaching about Death." It's a charming class, as I'm sure you can tell by its title. Charming and fascinating. As part of the class, we have to write sermons on different death related topics. Most recently, we had to write a sermon for a death-related event in the church year--Good Friday, Easter, All Saints Day, Maundy Thursday, and so on.

I chose to write a sermon for Holy Saturday. I've never actually been to a Holy Saturday service (not to be confused with Easter Vigil services which occur late that same night). In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard a sermon preached on this passage--the story of Jesus' burial. As you read, be mindful that this sermon would be one of many preached during Holy Week beginning with one on Palm Sunday journeying through the Last Supper and to the Cross and ending with the Resurrection. Here's what I came up with for one of the in between days--one of the days when we have to wait.

To Sit and Wait
John 19: 38-42

What a week. Six days ago we were on a high. We sang songs of Hosanna. We saw the prophecies fulfilled. The words of the Psalmist were shouted by the people of Jerusalem: “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” This past Thursday we heard the stories of the last days of Jesus read to us. We listened to him instruct his disciples (and so us) to love one another. We broke bread together, shared the cup, and watched as the symbols of our faith were stripped away from this sacred space.

The next day we returned and listened as our worst fears were confirmed. Jesus was crucified. We sat together in silence, then ate in silence--everyone feeling like they should say something, no one knowing quite what to say.

And today, we find ourselves gathered here again--not exactly sure why we returned to this space, but positive it needed to be done.

Today is one of the hollow days of Holy Week. A day where there isn’t much to be said or to be done other than to sit and keep watch. This is a common theme during the church year, particularly during seasons of preparation. As we look toward coming events, we are often exhorted to keep watch. It’s a central theme of Advent, and today we find ourselves reminded to do it again.

The season of Lent, like Advent, is not just a season of preparation, but also of waiting. Specifically, it’s a season of waiting for new life, of hoping for the resurrection, and of longing for redemption. But before any of that can happen, we must wait. And during Lent, our waiting isn’t filled with joyful anticipation, but with mourning.

This story of Jesus’ burial is found in all of the gospels. In each telling, we see Joseph of Arimethea, considered by many to be a member of the Sandhedrin (the group of powerful Jews who were influential in Jesus’ death), receive permission to take Jesus’ body and place him in a tomb. In all the stories, the stage is set at the start of Passover, a central holiday in the Jewish tradition that focuses on the story of the Exodus.

One element the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark and Luke) tell us, that John is missing is the presence of the women. They aren’t central to this story, but they are crucial in their actions. They follow Jesus’ body to the tomb, and they wait.

The Markan account is sure to tell us that Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Jesus saw the body in the tomb. This, of course, is a necessary literary element. Ensuring that the women saw Jesus in the tomb makes their coming claim of the Resurrection more viable. What they once saw was no longer.

Luke, always the historian, expands upon Marks version, adding that after the women saw Jesus in the tomb, “they returned, and prepared the spices and ointments.”

But Matthew offers us a different detail. The author of Matthew tells us that after Joseph of Arimethea had rolled a rock in front of the tomb and left, “Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were there, sitting opposite the tomb."

Sitting. Waiting. So often, when we are met with death, we find ourselves sitting and waiting. For some families, death is a welcome relief from hours and hours of sitting and waiting for the inevitable to come. For others, death is so sudden that it doesn’t seem like there is anything to do but sit and wait for the reality to sink in.

The women in our story seem to realize this: that after everything that had happened, there was nothing left to do but to sit and wait. Surely, it was difficult--difficult to see years of miracles and healings and teachings sealed in a tomb.

Even in death, however, we find a model for how to live in the Gospel. Namely, we are called to sit, to wait, and to keep watch. We aren’t told what these two Mary’s were thinking. We don’t know whether they were weeping or whether their tears had dried hours ago. We aren’t told if they spoke to one another, remembering the good days, or if they sat in silence, mourning. We are simply told that they are sitting across from the tomb.

It seems to me that we rush death when it occurs. Official periods of mourning have shrunk from potentially years to perhaps a day or two off from work. We might send flowers or a card if someone close to us dies. But, convinced that life goes on for the rest of us, we hardly pause for the dead. Maybe we can make it to visitation tomorrow night--if I don’t have to pick Tim up from soccer practice. I want to go to the funeral, but I’ve got a meeting I just can’t miss.

Mary and Mary were faced with a similar quandary. They had spent the day at the execution site, their hope that Jesus might live slowly turning to a hope that the mercy of death might come quickly. Sundown was approaching, and with it the Sabbath.

The Day of Preparation in the Jewish tradition is the time to make sure that all the chores and tasks that need to be completed for the Sabbath are done. The strict rules of Judaism concerning labor on the day prescribed to be one of rest made the day before the Sabbath critical. There was bread to bake, houses to clean, goods to purchase. Anything not completed by sundown would have to wait until after Sabbath.

To put it another way, these women had things to do. They needed to go get the groceries, needed to vacuum before the family came over. They needed to make sure the kids were all cleaned up and all the food was cooked.

But instead of running to do these chores, they sat and waited. Were they destroyed by what had just happened? Perhaps. Were the disappointed? Probably. Were they lost? Absolutely.

It certainly would’ve been easy to rush back into a routine. There’s comfort in routine, in knowing what’s next, in accomplishing something you set off to do. They certainly had plenty to do, and the rhythm of the life they knew before surely would’ve provided some reassuring structure.

But they didn’t leave. Not just yet. Instead, they sat and waited and kept watch.

Maybe they were waiting on the Resurrection, Jesus’ words of return echoing in their minds. Perhaps they were so devastated that they simply didn’t know what else to do. Or maybe they knew they had to be there, that as long as they stayed the reality of what happened simply wouldn’t be true. But the fact remains, they sat and the waited.

John O’Donohue, author, poet and spiritualist, writes in his book Anam Cara that “it takes a good while to really die.” He relates an Irish mourning tradition called the Caoineadh. He explains that “One of the lovely things about the Irish tradition is its great hospitality to death. When someone in the village dies, everyone goes to the funeral...All the neighbors gather around to support the family and to help them. It is a lovely gift. When you are really desperate and lonely, you need neighbors to help you,support you and bring you through that broken time.”

Despite our desire for solitude during the painful times and emotions surrounding the death of a loved one, it is important for us to be gathered in community. The women waited at the tomb together. This is important to us as a community of faith because our memories of a person who had died are not solely individual. We share corporate memories as well. We remember the ways that person has influenced the life of the community, their contributions and gifts.

But there is a second part to this Irish tradition of mourning. O’Donohue tells us that the people who gathered, “women mainly, came in and keened the deceased. It was a kind of high-pitched wailing cry full of incredible loneliness. The narrative of the caoineadh was actually the history of the person’s life as the women had known him. A sad liturgy, beautifully woven of narrative, was gradually put into the place of the person’s new absence from the world. [It] gathered all the key events of the person’s life. It was certainly heartbreakingly lonely, but it made a hospitable, ritual space for the mourning and sadness of the bereaved family.”

What a beautiful thought, to have friends and neighbors come and sit and wait with you. Your wailing, your crying out, becomes their wailing. Your grief is theirs. We have some of that still. I think of every Southern funeral I’ve been to and the feast that is laid out afterward. I think of my own mother’s funeral, and the swell of support from the Candler community that was evident in the over 50 students who joined us for lunch after the service.

The women at the tomb knew what we all know, that they had to mourn--that sometimes, all you can do it mourn and sit and wait. And they knew they couldn’t do it alone. This is the model, and indeed the good news, that the Gospel lays before us--that we don’t face death alone, that mourning is part of it all, but that we don’t have to encounter death deserted. Even facing death, we find community.

And so, we find ourselves here, today. Sitting and waiting and mourning. Hoping against hope that we will wake tomorrow to hear the Good news that Jesus is alive.

But for now, we will sit. For now we wait. For now, we will keep watch. And we will sit and we will wait and we will keep watch together.

Confused by the Spirit: a sermon for Haiti

2010-01-17T14:29:00.000-05:00

Originally preaching on Sunday, January 17 using the Epiphany 2C lectionary readings. The service that had been planned for this Sunday was scrapped the day before in light of the tragedy of Haiti.

Confused by the Spirit

Before I begin, I’d like to present a small disclaimer. This is in no way the sermon I intended to write. This service is in no way the service any of the staff intended on having today. In fact, the title listed is more a reflection of my personal feelings in preparation for this morning than the actual sermon.

But as the reports continued to flood in and the scale of the tragedy in Haiti began to come to light, there was simply no way we could gather today and sing “Joyful, Joyful.”

If you have a TV or a radio, surely you’ve seen or heard of the devastation. Streets lined with bodies. Children orphaned. The elderly unable to help themselves. Destruction at every turn.

Many of you may not realize this, but I have a brother in Haiti. A brother whom I have not heard from. A brother who worked at one of the resorts that crumbled on Tuesday.

I also have a sister who works in Haiti. She was one of the UN staff who died.

My mother is there too, still searching the body-lined streets to find her other children. She and my uncle have found a few of them alive, but most are dead.

You see, we all have family in Haiti. In the gospel of Mark, we are told of a rather tense interaction Jesus has with his followers around the idea of family.1 The story opens with Mary and her other sons standing on the outskirts of the crowd that had gathered around Jesus. His family sends to him, and the messenger tells Jesus “Your mother and brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.”

Do you remember Jesus’ reply? It’s shocking, not at all the good ol’ boy we’ve made Jesus into over the years. His reply is a simple question: ‘Who are my mother and my brothers?”

What? Who are your mother and brothers? Easy--your mother is the one you gave birth to you. And your brothers are her other children. Right?

Jesus doesn’t seem to think so. He looks at those who are surrounding him, the ones who have come to hear him speak words of wisdom and of truth. “Here,” he exclaims, “Here are my mother and my brothers!”   Realizing that he’s probably lost some of his followers in this statement, he adds “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.

What, then, does it mean to do the will of God? Despite a myriad of possible answers to this question, there is only one true response. It’s the action that we see prevail time and again in the Bible. It is the theme we see over and over and over again in the Gospels. Jesus sums it up in his teaching about the two greatest commandments.

In the New Testament canon we are first introduced to these commandments in Matthew. The writer of the gospel of Matthew tells us that it was the Pharisees who brought about this teaching. You see, the Pharisees were trying to test Jesus’ knowledge about the law, or Torah.

This particular pharisee, a lawyer, asked him this question: “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Now a lawyer in Jesus’ day was not a lawyer as we think of them. A Lawyer was someone concerned with the meaning of the law. In a sense, he was a theologian. The question he asked in no way was a serious one. He starts by addressing Jesus as Teacher, a obvious and insincere shift from Jesus’ believer’s use of Lord.

This conversation between the Pharisees and Jesus is a recurrence of a common theme in Matthew. Once again the Kingdom of God is at odds with the kingdom of religion.

The way the question is phrased is an attempt on behalf of the pharisees to catch Jesus off guard. Traditional understanding of the law is that all 613 commandments found in the Torah are equal in stature and value. Asking Jesus to choose one commandment or one kind of commandment over another is essentially trying to ask him a trick question.

Jesus doesn’t skip a beat. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind.” Now this is part of what is known in Judaism as the Shema. This statement of faith is the closest thing to a creedal statement in Jewish tradition. The Shema is spoken upon going to bed and upon waking from sleep. It is even uttered with one’s last breath.

In the Markan account of this story, we hear the whole of the Shema as the first commandment: Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all you heart and with all your soul, and with all your mind and with all your strength.”

Jesus knows of its importance, and offers it as the most important commandment, but then he adds his own explaining that “the second is like it.” Jesus isn’t suggesting here that the second is similar to the first in meaning. Rather, he is emphasizing its equal importance. “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” For Jesus the love of one’s neighbor is inseparable from the great command to love God. One professor writes “To love God is to love one’s neighbor, and to love one’s neighbor is to love God.”

Jesus isn’t finished quite yet. Just to hammer home his point, he adds: “On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”6 Essentially, love God and love others. The rest is commentary.

So, if we are to be family in Christ, then we should do God’s will. And from what we just discussed, it seems like a pretty fair statement to say that God’s will is for us to love God and for us to love one another.

But what does that look like? This is our true challenge: what does love look like? What does love of God and love of neighbor look like? Notice what Jesus doesn’t talk about. Jesus doesn’t seem to believe that our job is to judge our neighbor or blame them for their misfortunes. He doesn’t even seem particularly concerned with their past. Time and again, we hear stories of Jesus calling people from their tragic past into a hope filled future.

So how, then, do we figure out what love looks like? Lucky for us, we’ve got a whole book of clues.

As we read the pages of the Bible, we are presented with answer after answer to this question. The reading from Isaiah that we heard this morning is one answer: “For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest.”7 We flip to Micah: “And what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.”8 The psalms speak of love as refuge and shelter: “How precious is your steadfast love, O God! All people may take refuge in the shadow of your wings.”

We flip to the New Testament and find Jesus’ words reminding us of what our call to love means. Every time we face a tragedy, these words are at once words of comfort and words of action. Hear these words:

Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:
    “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs in the kingdom of heaven.
    “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
    “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
    “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
    “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy
    “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God
    “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.


It seems to me that almost every time we hear these words spoken we dismiss them as some sort of hippie speak. We live in a world of concrete success. Spiritual things are rarely touted as markers of success. Rather, we look to salaries and bonuses and cars and houses and trips. But we look at these teachings, the beatitudes, and hear nothing about split-levels and Mercedes.

Then we hear these words in the midst of crisis and they take on whole new meaning. What does it mean to be “poor in spirit?” Could it mean being so broken by the devastation around you that all you can do is fall on your knees and wail? What does it mean to mourn when a whole society has been torn apart? What does it mean to be merciful? What does it mean to be a peacemaker in a country not ripped apart by war, but by brute natural force?

Hidden in these words of comfort are words of action. They are statements that urge us to be a merciful people convinced of the importance of peacemaking. They are statements that not only affirm the hardship of life, but call us to respond to them.

But there are also more direct calls to action. Take the story of Jesus teaching his disciples about the return of “the Son of Man.” As part of this teaching, he tells us that the sheep will be at his right had and the goats at his left. He explains that those at his right hand are blessed by his Father. Why? “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

The righteous, confused, ask him “When did we do any of these.” And the king will reply “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

These aren’t menacing instructions. If anything they are empowering. Often God’s greatest commandment: to Love God and your neighbors is intimidating. Exactly how can we ever repay the love God has shown us. The short answer is: we can’t. But we can try. And Jesus gives us a starting place.

How can we repay that love? We can feed those who are hungry. We can care for the sick. We clothe the naked. We can lift up the downtrodden. We can be merciful. We can be a refuge. We can love kindness. We can work for justice. We can shout of love and truth and hope from the mountaintops.

Yes, it is a daunting task. But Paul reminds us that we are equipped for the job. The words from his first letter to the church in Corinth which we heard earlier remind us that we share a variety of gifts all inspired by the one Spirit. In times of need or distress, we can claim these gifts and use them to lift up a world which is broken and hurting and in desperate need of help.

You see, the Good News here, is not just some heady theological notion that Jesus came to save the whole world. The Good News is that we are equipped to aid in this salvation. I’m not talking about bringing people to Christ. While that is a good and worthy endeavor, its not what is needed here and now.

Our call today, in the midst of this crisis, is to be the hands of Christ in this world--to not remain silent when hatred is spewed about reasons for this catastrophe. To send aid--to send as much aid as we can as fast as we can. To pray, to pray hard, and hope against hope that more living are found. To hold the families who’ve lost loved ones in our hearts and lift them in God’s grace. To remind ourselves that God has indeed been our help in ages past and is our sure and confident hope in the days to come. To look toward the day with our faith may become sight and all will be made well.

Friends, can you see it? Can you see our call to be the light of Christ in this situation? Can you see our call beyond the politics of money and government to help those in need? Can you look at the people in Haiti and claim them as your own family?

For in Christ, we each have brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and uncles and aunts and children and god-daughters and nephews to call our own. What will you do to help them?

Amen.

"Come," Thou dost say to Angels

2009-12-23T07:22:00.000-05:00

“Come,” Thou dost say to Angels,
To blessed Spirits, “Come”;
“Come,” to the Lambs of Thine Own flock,
Thy little Ones, “Come home.”

“Come” – from the many-mansioned house
The gracious word is sent,
“Come” – from the ivory palaces
Unto the Penitent.

O Lord, restore us deaf and blind,
Unclose our lips tho’ dumb;
The say to us, “I come with speed,”
And we will answer, “Come.”

Christina Rossetti (1830-94)

He will come like last leaf's fall...

2009-12-21T20:29:00.000-05:00

He will come like last leaf’s fall
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.
He will come like frost
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.
He will come like dark,
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.
He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

Rowan Williams, (The Collected Poems, 2002)
with thanks to http://lovebloomsbright.wordpress.com

one year.

2009-10-31T07:39:00.000-05:00

Friends,

Today marks one year since mom's passing. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the love and support that you have shown Dad and I. When I think of what community is, this is it. It's just people who you say "hi" to, or folks who live near you. It is the group that gathers around you during the hard times and lifts you up. it's the group that calls you to ask to you eat with them, and checks on you in little ways, just to make sure you're doing alright.

Thanks for being that community for Dad and I.

Here is a prayer from the UM Book of Worship. I thought I'd share it with all of you.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF A DEATH

Everliving God,
    this day revives in us memories of loved ones who are no more.
What happiness we shared when the walked among us.
What joy, when, loving and being loved, we lived our lives together.
Their memory is a blessing for ever.

Months or years may have passed, and still we feel near to them.
Our hearts yearn for them.
Though the bitter grief has softened, a duller pain abides;
    for the place where once they stood is empty now.
The links of life are broken, but the links of love and longing cannot break.
Their souls are bound up in ours for ever.

We see them now with the eye of memory,
    their faults forgiven, their virtues grown larger.
So does goodness live, and weakness fade from sight.
We remember them with gratitude and bless their names.
Their memory is a blessing for ever.

And we remember as well the members
    who but yesterday were part of our congregation and community.
To all who cared for us and labored for all people, we pay tribute.
May we prove worthy of carrying on the tradition of our faith,
    for now the task is our.
Their souls are bound up in ours for ever.

We give you thanks that they now live and reign with you.
As a great crowd of witnesses,
    they surround us with their blessings,
    and offer you hymns of praise and thanksgiving.
They are alive for ever more. Amen.

Curry Chicken Salad

2009-10-27T13:02:00.001-05:00

It is a rare occasion that I make it to Whole Foods. This is mostly because, as a graduate student, my dollar goes further at other places. But, it is fun to go look and pretend that one day there will be money to spend on the finer foods of life.

One thing that I really love about Whole Foods, however, is their deli section that seems to have a little bit of everything--most of which has a gourmet flair. One of my favorites is their curry chicken salad. Here is my version.

The best part of this is that it is super easy to adapt to your taste. I've included what I used along with some other suggestions.

Curry Chicken Salad (for two)

Ingredients

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, boiled and chunked
3 heaping tablespoonfuls of mayo and sour cream (I used fat free for both of these. If you don't like one or the other, then take it out and compensate accordingly)
2 tablespoons (or to taste) good tasting curry powder
2 prunes, diced (trust me on this, it is delicious)
crunchy type things (I used carrots and onions. You might like to use shallots and celery)
salt and pepper, garlic powder to taste

Directions
Mix chicken chunks with remaining ingredients. Chill for at least an hour (to help the flavors meld). Serve.

Halloween Cat Cookies (Peanut Butter and Chocolate)

2009-10-25T17:56:00.002-05:00

My mother, who died last October 31, was a baker. Every holiday had some baked good(s) associated with it. She loved the fall, so Halloween had a couple of favorites. Here is one of her most beloved holiday cookies. The best part is that they are super easy to make and lend themselves to the creativity of children.

Halloween Cat Cookies

Ingredients

chocolate cake mix, one box
2 eggs
1/3 c. (or so) of water
1 c. peanut butter
candy corn
red hots
sugar

Directions

Preheat to 350 degrees.

Beat wet ingredients together. Slowly add cake mix. (It is helpful to use a mixer of some sort--this can get pretty sticky and stiff!)

Roll dough into 1.5" balls and place on a baking sheet. Top balls with sugar, then press flat with the bottom of a glass. Pinch ears onto cookies; press fork for whiskers.

Bake for 7-12 minutes, depending on your oven and the thickness of the cookies. Cooking too long can dry these out pretty quickly.

Decorate with candy corn eyes and a red hot nose!

Spicy Beef Stir-Fry with Basil

2009-10-20T14:43:00.000-05:00

Last Christmas, I decided that it was time to start improving my collection of cookware. The previous Christmas (2 years ago), I discovered the joy of being adult a.k.a getting major kitchen instead of fun things for all major gift giving holidays.

So, last year, I decided to use this to my advantage. The majority of my cookware had been inherited from my two aunts from my Dad's side of the family. Essentially, it was a collection of sturdy pots and pans and dated china.

I asked for new pots and pans. Apparently, this set of a cooking shopping spree and Christmas morning, I awoke to not only some pots and pans but an apron, cook books, and yes, a recipe calendar.

This is one of the recipes (that I've adapted) from that calendar and one that, I have to say, I really enjoy. Add more red pepper flakes if you like to make it extra spicy, and keep the extra half of the lime around if you need to tone anything down (just in case, you know, by total accident, you know, you add way to much, you know, spice--not cause that happened or anything).

It is super easy and quick, once all the ingredients are prepared. Be sure to get everything ready before hand (even the rice, if you want to eat it with that. I might also suggest tofu noodles, like these). Once you're cooking, you're cooking.

Here's what you need to serve 2:

3/4lb steak (flank or sirloin will be the most tender, round works too)
1/2 c. loosely packed basil leaves
1 tbsp. good tasting olive oil
1 1/2 tbsp. minced garlic
1/4 tsp - 3/4 tsp red pepper flakes, to taste
1 tbsp of soy sauce + 1 tbsp of fish sauce (or 2 of either)
Juice of 1/2 lime
[opt] 1/2 bag of broccoli slaw (in the produce aisle, pre-made)

To cook:
Slice the beef as thinly as possible (across the grain). Cut these slices into bite-sized pieces.

Wash and dry the basil; chop them coarsely. [If you have time, toss the beef with the basil and touch of olive oil and marinate for an hour--if not, don't worry!]

Preheat wok or large skillet over high heat until it smokes (3-4 minutes)

Lower the heat, add oil.
Quickly add garlic, stirring once or twice. Once it begins to color (which is pretty quickly), return to high heat and add the beef/basil mixture.

Stir quickly, add red pepper flakes.

Stir regularly, but not constantly until meat looses its redness (maybe a minute or two longer)

Add the sauces (soy/fish/both) and lime juice). Add in broccoli slaw for extra crunch and veggies (opt).

Stir. Serve.

Delicious Pumpkin Muffins

2009-10-18T16:38:00.007-05:00

I've realized over the past months that this blog has been neglected. Partly, this is due to lack of time. Partly it is due to all the theological conversation I get at school. That and, you know, tests and papers and presentations. Such academic joys as those. The other week, I stumbled on an old acquaintance's blog of recipes and fun. She inspired me to offer my own blog a face lift of sorts. Perhaps a little more fun and fancy.

So, to start: Delicious Pumpkin Muffins.

The base of these muffins is Trader Joe's Pumpkin Pancake and Waffle Mix (but I suspect any similar mix will work). They don't pile over the top in traditional muffin fashion, but the brown sugar/pecan mixture makes them some of the tastiest fall treats I've had in a long, long time.
Thanks to my friend, Mariah, for the idea!

Here is the recipe:

dry ingredients:
1c. pumpkin pancake and waffle mix
1/4 c. sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1/8 tsp. ground cloves

wet ingredients:
1 egg, lightly beaten
2 1/2 tbsp. melted butter
1/2 c. water
1/4 c. milk (I used skim)
1 tsp. vanilla extract
(opt) 1 tsp. sugar-free hazelnut syrup (here's the kind I like)

Brown Sugar/Pecan mixture:
1/4c. brown sugar
1/4c. pecan pieces broken up
1 tsp. ground cinnamon

Toss dry ingredients together. Mix all wet ingredients into the mix (except egg--we don't want the hot butter to scramble the egg!) After all ingredients are combined, add in the egg.

Pour batter into muffin tin.

Top with brown sugar/ pecan mixture.

Bake for 15 minutes at 350 degrees.

makes 8. (easy to double)

If you use the brown sugar/pecan mixture, it will sink into the muffin. It's a sweet surprise to a tasty fall treat!

Roses, Late Summer

2009-08-10T21:16:00.003-05:00

a poem by Mary Oliver

What happens

to the leaves after

they turn red and golden and fall

away? What happens

to the singing birds

when they can't sing

any longer? What happens

to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any

personal heaven

for any of us?

Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,

will call to us, meaning us?

Beyond the trees

the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley.

So they never seem to vanish, they are always there

in the blossom of light

that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.

And over one more set of hills,

along the sea,

the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.

If I had another life

I would want to spend it all on some

unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree

full of waving branches.

I wouldn't mind being a rose

in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.

Reason they have not yet thought of.

Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.

Or any other foolish question.

a motherless child

2009-05-10T20:39:00.009-05:00

The choir I sing with at school is known for it's version of Wade in the Water. It is easily the most requested piece we perform. The song begins with my friend M. singing from the audience. The song builds as the choir appears from within the gathered people. Layer upon layer of music is stacked, one upon the other.

The basses start chanting--wade in the water, wade in the water. They're desperate for you to join them---"wade in this water," they seem to be saying. Next the tenors begin a Native American chant, reminding us of similar struggles of oppressed people. The altos come in next singing the words to the song: Wade in the water. Wade in the water, children. Wade in the Water. God's gonna trouble the water.

Soon, the choir is in a frenzy and the sopranos begin to wail. "I wanna die easy when I die. I wanna die easy when I die. Shout salvation as I rise. I wanna die easy, when I die."

Then, through it all, a single voice cuts the layers: "Sometimes, I feel like a motherless child a long way from home..." This particular lament ends, and all the other voices rush back like waves barely held back by a weak earthen dam. Suddenly, there isn't anything to do but sing and convince others that they, indeed, need to wade in the water.

At our most recent concert, the single voice lamenting its situation cut me like never before mostly because I've never been able to identify with it before. You see, this is my first mother's day as a motherless child.

A few years ago, I wrote this about my mom in an earlier blog post recalling some of my favorite memories of my mother:

But more importantly, I remember the little memories that give reason for the holiday. I remember waiting for mama to pick me up from Ms. Carrie's after she left work. I remember trips to Fayetteville--from Dunkin' Donuts to Michael's and seemingly every place in between, we seemed to own that place. I remember sitting at the upright in our living room and singing hymns that she loved and played (quite beautifully I might add). And decorating the house for Christmas--white lights. I always wanted multicolored. Little did we know that 7 years later, I would be the one pushing for the classic white while she would be arguing for the colored ones. I seem to recall visiting shut-ins with homemade cookies on every holiday. My mother has a way with older folks--she just talks and talks and they listen and talk..and somehow, everyone ends up on the same plane--I'm here for you and thinking about you. I won't forget you.

Today marked my first visit to her grave since her burial nearly 7 months ago. It was the first time I'd seen the granite marker with her name carved delicately under a band of flowers bordering the top. It was the first time my fingers had sifted through the grey gravel covering the earth she is buried beneath. After leaving some wildflowers, a picture of a postcard from postsecret, and a plant my dad had bought, I cried--for myself, for my dad, for my mom.

As my tears dried, I was surrounded by a warm breeze and I was reminded of all the good memories I have of this little country church. I remembered picnics under the huge oak trees and bare feet in the soft, country grass that faded into a sandy drive. It even smelled like I remembered it--like homecoming celebrations and old hymnals and prayers.

And the words of Jesus in the Gospel of John that I had read earlier in the day in front of the mother's day crowds at church came to mind: I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you (John 14.18).

One of the hardest things I've had to face in these past months is the sneaking suspicion that I'm part of a secret club that no one wants to be a part of, but that everyone eventually joins. I walk around wondering who knows what I now know: what the loss of a parent, of a mother, of a best friend feels like. My mom was all three.

But as time carries on, I start to feel a smile sneak onto my face as I wonder to myself who knows what else I know: all the good memories keep her alive and the promise that we aren't alone.

I'm not a motherless child. I am a child blessed by a mother who guided me, loved me, sheltered me and held me while she was alive. And I am child who continues to be blessed by memories and moments that guide me, shelter me, hold me, and remind me of that love everyday.

Thomas the Believer

2009-05-02T06:54:00.002-05:00

Another sermon, this one offered the Sunday after Easter at my home church Elon using the Doubting Thomas text.

During the months leading up to my first semester of seminary, advice was around every corner. Most offered well wishes and practical advice—try to make sure you get sleep, eat well, don’t forget to pray. This kind of advice might be categorized as nice advice—the kind that builds you up, reminds you to be nice to yourself. There was another type of advice that I received, however, that was more along the lines of warning. Mostly this advice came from retired ministers—none here (I think) and was along the lines of “don’t let them tell you that Jesus was a woman;” or worse: “don’t let them take the Trinity away from you;” or worse still: “don’t let them turn you into an Atheist.”

Well, friends, you can breathe a sigh of relief. While the gender of Christ has been discussed, the gender of Jesus has not been questioned and we do talk about the Trinity—maybe in a some non-traditional ways, but its there. Belief in God, well, that’s a different story.

Don’t worry. I still believe in God. The difference is, I don’t believe in the same way I once did. That’s not to say I believe more in God or any less in God, just that I buy it now—I can grasp the realness of God in a way I hadn’t before. I hadn’t quite had a wound-touching experience yet.

When I first arrived, third year students, those with one year left in their degree, had a plethora of metaphors to share about seminary. One said that during your first year they cut you open. Your second year, they pull everything out, and your final year, they tell you to put it all back.

Another third year told me: “It’s like the passion narrative: year one they crucify you. Your second year you spend in the tomb. Just when things get hopeless, you find yourself resurrected by your third year.” I thought that they were exaggerating. “I cant be that bad,” I remember thinking to myself “I mean, it’s Seminary.” They weren’t exaggerating. It is hard.

It’s hard because it’s demanding—pages upon pages on reading, books worth of papers to write. But you expect those things to be hard—It’s graduate school. But what I’ve found really challenging is that everything is questioned. Every time I walk into a classroom, what we may or may not discuss that day has the potential to fundamentally alter what I believe.

Our gospel lesson this week is about belief—about knowing and not knowing. It’s about wounds and proof. This week, we find ourselves still in the heart of the surprise of the Resurrection. Mary has returned to the disciples after her conversation with the risen Christ and has told them all about it. That evening, Jesus shows up again. “Peace be with you” is his greeting, and then he proceeds to show them his hands and his side. Thomas, the twin, isn’t there for this part. He misses it.

We all know this part by heart: The disciples tell him what they have seen, and he doesn’t believe them saying: “ Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side. I will not believe.” Jesus, of course, appears again to the disciples (this time with Thomas present), then turns to Thomas and tells him to touch the wounds. “Do not doubt, but believe.” To which Thomas answers: “My Lord and My God.”

It all finishes with one of Jesus’ iconic teachings (This is just like Jesus isn’t it—keep teaching even after death and Resurrection.) He says: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

What fascinates me about the way we relate this story is that we gloss over the whole first part of this passage to get to the verse that we think is most meaningful. What we remember about these verses aren’t the specifics of the story. What first comes to mind is Jesus’ admonition to Thomas. I say Doubting Thomas, you think…wounds, belief, but mostly Jesus saying to Thomas: Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.

Belief is a funny thing. It’s a hard thing—hard to grasp, hard to understand, hard to do. So often we equate knowledge with belief. Before I came to seminary, I thought I knew a lot of things about God. But education, as American philosopher and historian Will Durant would say, is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.

I’ve learned far more than I realized I needed to learn in my two years of graduate work. I’ve learned about historical councils and debates. I’ve done my far share of work on 20th century theologians and I’ll give you a tip: If the question is about Karl Barth, the answer involves Christ. But, unfortunately, Jesus isn’t the easy answer to all the questions that have arisen during my time at Emory. Knowledge isn’t always the answer.

We often refer to Thomas’ character in this passage as Doubting Thomas. It’s a phrase that we often hear in the midst of discussions when questions are directed toward pillars of our faith. It doesn’t carry a positive connotation. Being a “Doubting Thomas” means that you aren’t willing to believe as easily as should, that you need proof or knowledge that others don’t seem to require.

But what we forget is that Thomas isn’t asking for anything different than what the disciples had already seen. During his first appearance to the disciples on the Evening of that third day, John tells us that “Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.’” then “he showed them his hands and his side.”

It would be easy, as a seminarian, to preach an all too cliché sermon about the
benefits of asking questions—how we should give ourselves to theological inquiry. It would be just as easy to give a sermon implying that Jesus doesn’t want us to question our faith, but believe.

But, what matters to me today, is that Jesus did for Thomas exactly what Jesus will do for us—he gave Thomas a wound-touching experience. Jesus offered his own wounds of suffering as a witness to the resurrection. Wound-touching experiences then are the moments Jesus give us what we need so that we can believe. This doesn’t mean that Jesus gives us belief or faith, but it does mean that when we are desperate for something to hold on, desperate for something for us to put our fingers in—Christ is there holding out his hands or pointing to his side saying, “Touch here.”

Interestingly, the author of the Gospel of John never tells us that Thomas actually touches Jesus’ wounds. Sometimes, what we think we need to be able to believe isn’t what we need at all.

And here’s the thing, Thomas believed! “My Lord and My God” is his reply directly after Jesus offers him his hands and side. “My Lord and My God.” Thomas believed.

So often we pass over the things around us that act as beacons of belief—moments of natural beauty that point to God, stressful times that miraculously work out.
This past year I had an experience that pointed to God in the midst of extreme hardship.

The fact is that hard times make cynical minds—you like that? I came up with it myself—hard times make cynical minds. Belief is hard enough to come by when things seem fine, but throw in persecution, fear, disappointment and unknowing and belief seems nearly impossible. With the roller coaster of emotions that comes with Holy Week, it’s no surprise that Thomas didn’t want to believe his disciples. They’re making it up, he might say. Or maybe he simply dismissed them as crazy. Hard times make cynical minds.

Thomas and the disciples experience with hardship isn’t an unique one. We’ve all been through our own moments of suffering—our own crossless passions. And in the midst of the moments sitting with pain and hardship, we long for those wound-touching experiences that remind us of the promise of the resurrection. We long for moments where belief overtakes knowledge and proof.

As many of you know, my mother was diagnosed with stage three lymphoma last February. We made it through weeks of treatments to hear that much hoped for word—remission. We savored that word. Remission. We were going to be OK. It was a triumphant day--our own Palm Sunday, of sorts.

But, after Palm Sunday (as we experienced these past two weeks), you so often have to face death. After falling in the shower on a Sunday, she was taken to the hospital. Tests revealed that one tiny piece of the lymphoma that had remained in her brain had spread to the lining between her brain and skull. Her death was immanent.

Those five days that we waited for death in the hospital were the longest days I have lived. I have never been so heartbroken and so relieved as I was that Friday when the labored breath ended. It was a devastating moment, a shattering one that redefined my life.

But those five days taught me more about life and love and belief than any other experience I’ve had to date. Those days showed me the value of holding the hand of dear loved one. I don’t know if she felt it, but I believe she did. I sang songs to her. I don’t know if she heard them, but I believe she did. I prayed with her. I don’t know if she prayed with me, but I believe she did. I still don’t know any of these things for sure, but I believe all of them hold heartedly.

Toward the end of our stay in the hospital, I was singing to her. She had been unconscious for a few days, and we were simply waiting. I was holding her hand, and I began to sing: [sings] Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on, let me stand. I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m warn. Through the storm, through the night, Lead me on, to the light. Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me home.
A flicker of recognition ran across her face, and her eyes opened slightly.

I don’t know if she heard me, but I believe she did. Looking back, that moment pointed me toward faith—toward the belief in something that seemed utterly unbelievable. My mom had heard me. It was as if Jesus had walked in and said, “touch here. It’s going to be OK.”

The good news of the Resurrection doesn’t end with the empty tomb—it continues in the living Christ who appears and points us toward his wounds saying: touch and believe. Far more than what we need to believe has already been laid before us. It’s our job to claim our belief with Thomas: My Lord and My God.

The Resurrection, a little late.

2009-04-16T08:39:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I was crucified with him;
today I am glorified with him.
Yesterday I died with him;
today I am made alive in him.
Yesterday I was buried with him;
today I am raised up with him.
Let us offer ourselves to him
who suffered and rose again for us.
Let us become divine for his sake,
since for us he became human.
He assumed the worse that he might give us the better.
He became poor that by his poverty we might become rich.
He accepted the form of a servant
that we might win back our freedom.
He came down that we might be lifted up.
He was tempted that through him we might conquer.
He was dishonored that he might glorify us.
He died that he might save us.
He ascended that he might draw to himself us,
who were thrown down through the fall of sin.
Let us give all, offer all, to him
who gave himself a ransom and reconciliation for us.
We needed an incarnate God, a God put to death,
that we might live.
We were put to death together with him
that we might be cleansed.
We rose again with him
because we were put to death with him.
We were glorified with him
because we rose again with him.
A few drops of blood
recreate the whole of creation!

Easter Oration, St. Gregory the Theologian

2009-04-10T08:56:00.004-05:00

So they took Jesus; and carrying the cross by himself, he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew Aramaic is called Golgotha. There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them. Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, the Nazorean the King of the Jews.’ Many of the Jews read this inscription, because the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city; and it was written in Hebrew,Aramaic in Latin, and in Greek. Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, ‘Do not write, “The King of the Jews”, but, “This man said, I am King of the Jews.” ’Pilate answered, ‘What I have written I have written.’ When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his clothes and divided them into four parts, one for each soldier. They also took his tunic; now the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from the top. So they said to one another, ‘Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see who will get it.’ This was to fulfil what the scripture says,‘They divided my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.’ And that is what the soldiers did.

Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.

After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), ‘I am thirsty.’ A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

John 19. 16-30

God Has a History of Moving

2009-04-01T08:47:00.004-05:00

As is obvious by now, I'm taking a preaching class this semester. This sermon is on 2 Samuel 7.1-14a, otherwise known as the Davidic Covenant.

God has a history of moving. Did you know that? God has a history of moving. God moved in the flames of the burning bush and in the waters of the red sea. God moved in the breath that brought life to dry bones. God moved in the walls of Jericho and stirred in the heart of Solomon. God embraced Mary and challenged Joseph. God guided the disciples and raised the dead. God has inspired protests against war and witnessed to the power of non-violence. God has a history of moving. And, in this passage, God is concerned with doing just that—moving.

We’ve been talking about David a lot recently. We’ve heard the stories that tell of David’s anointing, of great victories in battle. Joshua just told us about David’s triumphant return to Jerusalem with the Ark of the Covenant—God’s holy throne. David returns as a war hero, but quickly changes roles into that of the priest. We see him officiating rituals and wearing priestly clothing.

But David is not a priest, he’s a king. And, starting with chapter seven, we see David acting like one. Basically, he starts making decisions. About God. There’s no doubt that his intentions were good ones. David wanted to give the Ark a proper place to reside—shelter, protection. And now, as king and savior of Jerusalem, he could do it.

I can imagine David feeling awkward and uncomfortable, living in such splendor while the Ark, the symbol and manifestation of God in the world was stowed in a tent. So he decided to build the Ark a proper “house” out of Cedar—a fine, fragrant wood.

David tells his plans to Nathan, a prophet in the King’s court. And Nathan sees no problems with David’s idea, offering the Lord’s approval. But that same night, we are told. That same night, the Lord moves. God came to Nathan and, in the first part of the oracle at least, David gets (as we might say today) told.

“When did I tell you to do this?” God asks. “Have I ever told anyone, since the Egypt days, to do this?” God then proceeds to outline to Nathan (and thus to David) all the good works God has done for David. God doesn’t stop with simply listing the benevolence that he has poured upon David. God keeps going, adding that the Lord will make David a house and will give David a dynasty. “I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever,” God says. “I will be father to him and he shall be a son to me.”

In this passage we find a tremendous promise to David, one filled with hope for the future. These are good things—lineage and blessing. The favor of the Lord. This oracle is often referred to as the Davidic Covenant—in this case, an unconditional promise God makes to his people through David.

It’s a passage that is formative for our faith and our world even if we don’t speak of it explicitly. As Christians, we point to this text as the foundation for the importance of the Messiah we call Jesus. In the world, this oracle is often pointed to as a reason to have a Jewish state—an issue that has long been a hotbed of debate around the intersection of religion and global politics.

But, what fascinates me about this passage isn’t these or other implications. What is fascinating is the way it all began. David sets out to take care of God. God, instead, takes care of David. In the text, as I’ve already mentioned, we hear that David is planning on making a “house” for the Ark. House could be translated as temple or palace. Either way, David wants to build a permanent place for the Ark—a place of protection and shelter and safety.

The history of the Ark is a colorful one. It was the symbolic throne of God that was so holy that if anyone touched it, they would be struck dead—even in attempt to save it from disaster as we heard in the scripture read at the beginning of class. Through out the Hebrew Bible we find mention of the famed Ark of the Covenant—of its shape and covering and adornments. Yet, even though we have some of these details, the Ark remains shrouded in mystery. While we have descriptions, none are thorough enough for us to get a true picture of it. We’re not even sure what happened to it.

But what we can be sure of is that it was held in high esteem. This was a revered part of the Hebrew faith, so holy that it was taken everywhere the people went. Holy enough, David decides, to have its own building. So, as we’ve heard, David wanted to do the logical thing—protect that which was important to his people. Keep the sacred safe, the holy protected.

But God refuses to be grounded. God refuses to be made immobile. The oracle asks David “Of all the times I’ve lead you and been with you, have I ever asked for a house of Cedar?” David, of course, knows the answer—no. God continues, pointing out that not only has God not asked for protection, but God was the one to choose and protect the people of Israel and David

The oracle Nathan channels is, undoubtedly, an intense one. It calls on the history of the Hebrew people, not just in recent times of success and triumph, but all the way back to its days of enslavement. God, as we’ve heard already, has a history of moving.

A temple or palace for the Ark, then, immobilizes God. Certainly God is not confined to human walls, but all too often the fault is ours. God’s ability to move in his people and in this world is independent of human attempts to limit God. We are the ones that keep people away from God. We are the ones who forget the ways God has moved in the past and ignore the ways that God is moving now.

But God doesn’t simply shun the protection David tries to offer. God turns David’s offer on its head. Not only does God not want or need David’s house, but God declares that he will make David a house. Here we find “house” carrying another meaning beyond palace or temple. Here, God speaks of David’s house, or dynasty—a royal lineage. David’s initial idea of securing the Ark is met with God’s intent to do just that for David—secure his lineage.

Attempting to secure God, of course, is no unusual occurrence—the faithful have long tried to save and protect God. The crusades sought to defend Christianity and Jerusalem against perceived threats from Islam. Airplanes have been flown into buildings in the name of God.

The struggle to protect God isn’t limited to religions fighting it out, however. We also find it in our own churches, our own communities. And I wonder, what are we scared of? What is it that heightens our fear and causes us to hold so tightly to the God of blessing and promise that we build societies and traditions that keep others away from God? Who or what are we protecting God from?

In the local church, it is often the fear of losing our Jesus that causes us to push others away from God. Churches struggle with using inclusive language, and not just because it’s hard to change old habits. They struggle because if God isn’t male, then what is God? Suddenly, the boundaries and lines that we’ve drawn around the Divine are blurred and that makes us uneasy. It’s far simpler to compartmentalize God than to expand our understanding of the Divine. The idea that God can move and inspire and create beyond what we know and experience is terrifying and awe-inspiring in one breath.

But, it seems, the terror overtakes the wonder, and so we don’t stop at simply limiting God. We also build fences around the people searching to find and connect to God.

For the past year, I’ve worked as the music minister at a small, country church dealing with the explosion of Atlanta suburbia around it. Church members are friendly and, for the most part, genuine. I like it there. It reminds me a lot of the church I grew up in—family oriented and kind. It’s comfortable, familiar. But there are reasons I left the church I grew up in, and reasons I struggle at this church too.

I came out as a gay man to my parents when I was 15. The years prior to that conversation were rough ones. I was raised in the South, in a geographic, social, and religious location that had very particular understandings of who and what gay people were. Namely, sinners.

I was terrified about how my parents would respond, but equally as scary was the thought of what my church might say. The people at church, it seems, never quite got it. I didn’t want to change them. I just wanted to be me.

I had been going there since I was four. They weren’t just distant old people at church, they were family. I wasn’t just another snot-faced kid, I was a son. For a long time, I was that kid. The one that couldn’t seem to do wrong. The one that all the kids were friends with. The one that the parents loved. The one that the older adults adored.

I couldn’t do wrong, that is, until they found out that I was gay.

There wasn’t any big revelation. More of a sliding secret that crept beneath the pews and into peoples ears. People started drifting away. Phone calls that once rang often to include me in non-church youth activities, all but vanished. And then, 12 years of church family seemed to be distant.

I wasn’t sure what was happening. The God they had taught me about, the God I knew, didn’t abandon me. Why did they? Why did they push me away? Weren’t they supposed to be the ones of all the people in my life to hold me close?

It was hard, and to be honest, I’m waiting for the same thing to happen at the church that employs me now. Hardly a Sunday goes by that I’m not asked if I have a girlfriend or why I’m not married. If I mention I’m hungry or that I woke up late, it seems, amazingly, that a wife would fix all of those problems.

And every comment and question along those lines is another block in the wall being built up around God to keep people like me away from God. Sure, it isn’t explicit, but I know what the implications are. Come out, and loose my job. Be honest about my reality and, suddenly not be good enough. Admit to being gay, and you just aren’t welcome here.

The sad thing is this: the outcasts communities create to protect God aren’t just because of hot-button issues. We exile those who think differently about how to pray or share the table or, as Mallory pointed out a few weeks ago, think different paint colors should’ve been chosen.

We’ve forced our only interactions with God into holy stone and wooden shrines filled with quiet agreement about the blessed poor and meek. Yet, as we’ve immobilized God, we’ve immobilized ourselves. We, like David, have decided that God looks better as cross on hanging behind the chancel, a symbol of God in the security of a temple, then out in the world. And because we listen for God an hour a week sitting in a pew, we miss the action that we are called to take. We miss God’s call to move.

But hear the good news: God, still has a history of moving. And, sooner or later, God’s movement will inspire our own. The movement and action that God leads through the Hebrew Bible is hardly dormant. It was in the streets of Memphis and Selma. It’s in the community’s efforts in the flooding Dakotas. It is in the banners calling for justice made by our own peers that hung from interstate overpasses. God moves now. God moves in churches that insist that God loves people regardless of race or sexuality or gender or ability or age. God isn’t finished moving and creating and inspiring, and this must awaken our deepest sense of wonder.

We must stop telling God what to do or who to be. We have to release God from the chains we’ve bound him in, and let God move. Our attempts to hold God for ourselves have been met with the same proclamation David heard millennia ago: I will hold You because I have chosen you. Do not tell me how to move. Instead, move with me.”

Thanks be to God. Amen.

What are your thoughts on God?

2009-03-24T13:59:00.004-05:00

For the next little bit, I'll be responding to questions my friend, M. asked me a week or so ago.

Well, M. Jump right to it. What are my thoughts on God? Well. To start, I would say that I have no idea who God is. For all the thinking and writing and researching and reading and praying and experiencing I've done (which is a lot and not all that much at the same time), I would have to say that I have no idea who God is.

But this doesn't mean that I don't have any thoughts on God. I do have some of those. Lot's really. Here are two.

(+) I think God is far beyond anything we can assign God to be. God isn't just not a male nor a female, but has the ability to be both and beyond gender at the same time. The same applies for all other ways that we label and chain God.

(+) I believe in a God of second chances and third chances and 9th chances and 47th chances. And, as Kierkegaard would say, This awakens my deepest sense of wonder and joy and is a great source of relief.

But, for some reason, I can't seem to find the words to express exactly what I think (mainly because that changes fairly regularly). So, here are some quotes that I find particularly meaningful in the way I think about God:

"For thirty years I sought God. But when I looked carefully I found that in reality God was the seeker and I the sought." - Abu-Yazid al-Bistami

"I had a thousand questions to ask God; but when I met him they all fled and didn't seem to matter." -Christopher Morley

"There is a sign of God on every leaf that nobody else sees in the garden." -Thomas Merton

"Sometimes--there's God--so quickly!" -Tennessee Williams

"I am often closer to God doing the dirty dishes than when listening to Bach or Mozart." -Henry Miller

"It is safe to assume that we've created God in our own image when God hates all the people we hate."--Anne Lamott

Of course, none of these are adequate. But, then, who could sum up God beyond all things in a phrase or a sentence? At the end of the day, I know nothing for sure, except that it's by God's grace that I can say that...

old friends, hard questions

2009-03-19T20:04:00.002-05:00

My friend, M., recently emailed me. She and I went to Elon together and, during my sophomore year, we would share a meal fairly regularly. I'd lost touch with her recently. We'd each moved to opposite corners of the States, and started school and, you know, life. But today I got a note from her. She included that she is working on a project for school and had a list of questions she wanted my response to--questions about God, the church, and being gay and Christian.

It's interesting because for as much as we talk about these things at school somehow we never get to the meat. We talk about what other people think. What tradition holds to be the case or which theologians carry a high Christology, but we never seem to get here. To the question asked in genuine curiousity: so, what do you think?

So, for the next days, I'll be answering her questions here with the caveat that I'm really just thinking out loud and reserve the right to change my mind. Jesus did.

another day, another sermon.

2009-03-16T10:56:00.002-05:00

In preaching class, we've been in our small groups preaching to one another on assigned texts. My text focused on a moment when the Jesus we see isn't the Jesus we're used to seeing found in Mark 7 Here is the sermon:

There is no denying it, this is a hard text. If we were reading through Mark, we would have just come off a few chapters of fun miracles--the feeding of the 5,000, Jesus walking on water, and so on. We've witnessed Jesus' ability to care for people in really pragmatic ways (I mean, he fed people--lots of fish and bread) and his desire to strengthen their faith.

We’re used to this Jesus—the Jesus who helps, heals, cares for. Last week’s sermons told focused on other stories of Jesus’ helping hands. We heard about demons being cast out and bodies being healed and children being brought back to life.. Sometimes, those who were healed didn’t even ask for it. The John 9 text we lived in for the first weeks of the semester saw that to be the case—the blind man was brought to Jesus, and he was healed. With out asking.

But here, in these words, we stumble on another Jesus. One that, if we are honest with the text, is a hard Jesus to deal with. The Jesus we know wouldn't turn people away. But here, in Mark 7, we see Jesus tell this syro-phoenician woman—a gentile--that He won't heal her daughter because she isn't a Jew.

The story has Jesus roaming around the northern coastal plain, near Tyre in what is modern-day Lebanon. Trying not to be noticed, he ducks into a house, yet, it seems, word is already spreading about his arrival. A woman, whose daughter has an unclean spirit falls at his feet.

This is the familiar part, the scenario that we see played out again and again in Mark. Jesus is walking, doesn’t want to be noticed, tries to keep a low profile, but those who need help find Jesus anyway.

But, we find out, this isn’t just any woman.

The text points out that this is a Gentile woman, of the syrophoenician race. This certainly wasn’t a surprise to Jesus. He knew where he was, and what kind of people lived there. Tyre was near the border of the land of Israel. It was no secret that Gentiles lived over its northern border, nor that Jews of that time were living in a Gentile world.

This woman who shouldn’t be even talking to Jesus because she isn’t a Jew, much less asking for anything because she is a woman, approaches Jesus and asks him multiple times to heal her daughter. In the Matthean version of the story, there is a little more interaction here. She pleads with Jesus, and he denies her twice. In the Markan scene, we are told that “she kept asking Him to cast the demon out of her daughter.”

In either case, the response Jesus gives is surprising to say the least. “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

I think it is probably safe to assume we aren't talking about our family pet here. This isn't a compliment. In fact, I'd say its mean.

Imagine--Jesus being mean? Not very Christ-like, eh?

Still, she doesn't give up. She responds: Yes, Lord. But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master's tables.

And with this response, Jesus seems to do an amazing thing—he changes his mind. He tells the woman “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.” She goes home, and finds that it is true. Her daughter has been healed.

This one woman’s faith in the crumbs healed her daughter.

What’s interesting about Jesus’ last words to this woman is that they don’t match the model. We’ve heard Jesus time and again through the gospels say ‘your faith has made you well.” But here, he is hardly as explicit.

Instead, he cites her response as the thing that saved her daughter, not her faith explicitly. Yet, it seems to me, it was her faith that inspired her to go after the crumbs.

That is where the gospel is in this story—in the crumbs, crumbs that have the ability to change people’s minds—even Jesus’.

But, here’s the thing about food—people like to hoard it, even the crumbs. Sometimes I hear these hoarders referred to as “half-way Christians”—folks who are so concerned about what THEIR gospel says to THEIR community, that when it’s time to share it with the world beyond, they fall short. Sometimes we call them, seminarians.

You know the people I'm talking about. They claim to believe in Christ, then push people away from Him.

Or they say they care about God's creation: "I recycle!" the say. But recycling only happens when it is convenient. You want to shout that Christianity isn't convenient--you don't get to choose it just when it happens to fit.

Better yet, they are the people who watch the church clock. "What do you mean we have to sing all six verses?," they wonder aloud. "We are supposed to be out of here at noon! We have to beat the Baptists to lunch..." or “I have a blackboard post to finish writing.”

Or those who mourn for the homeless population's reality, but when begged for a dollar, refuse to give it. "They'll just buy drugs or alcohol," the half-way Christian argues.

What about the people who sing of God's love for everyone, but really can't stand that black kid who came to church today wearing a baseball hat and low riding pants?

Or the ones whose words of love begin to go sour as attempts for inclusion merely bring an exclusion of another sort?

Or they squabble about the details--about who God loves more or who sins less or who got it first or who hasn't ever gotten it.

These are the people who hoard the crumbs, who desperately hold on to the way things are instead of looking to the way things might be.

And here’s the worst part is: I'm one of them. And, I suspect, at one point or another, you’ve had a moment of being one too.

But hear the good news of this story: Jesus. Changed. His. Mind. Jesus changed his mind. And we can too.

We can fling our arms wider to those who are desperate for crumbs of hope, peace, belonging, faith, love, all of those identifiers of the Christian faith. We can call people to us, look them in their eyes and see Christ whether or not we are the same color or the same gender or the same sexual orientation. In changing his mind, Jesus threw out the old, rigid traditions that separated people from one another and from God. He changed his mind, and healed her anyway.

Sometimes, however, we aren’t the ones with the minds to change. Sometimes, we are the ones frantic for the crumbs, for little bits of sustenance for the journey. Can you think of times that you were desperate for crumbs? I can.

The cold of Copenhagen was unrelenting. I had been there for 3 months, since January, and was beginning to think that winter would never end. I was an ocean away from home, my birthday was quickly approaching, and I had never felt so alone in my life. My time was consumed with study and reading and sleeping—hardly an adventure.

I was riding my bicycle home from school late one night when I passed the cathedral—the Church of Our Lady. I had been in it before. It’s a huge church, one that glows with white marble and the clean lines of Scandinavian design.

As I rode by, I noticed the church doors were open. So, I stopped, locked my bike and timidly walked in. All around the church were candles and silence. Every ten minutes or so, a prayer or psalm was sung to mark the passing of time. After a long quiet, a priest emerged from the front with bread and wine, and those there moved toward the front.

Danes, like most Europeans, are not very religious. They seem to have gotten it out of there system, but the small gathered community here seemed to pay no attention to the cultural mores of the day. They gathered in a semi-circle around the altar in the front of the church. Desperate for my own crumbs, I joined them.

The liturgy began. In Danish. But amazingly, I knew everything that was happening. These words spoken for millennia united us in Christ that night. The bread began to make its way around. To my right, a woman said offered it to me in Danish. I took it and offered it to the man to my left, in English. The cup was passed in the same way. We fed each other, sustained each other. And, if I’m honest, they gave me the crumbs, literally and figuratively, that I’d been craving all along.

You see, we’re all searching for crumbs from the table and we all hold bread for others. Christ challenges us to change our minds—to open them to those who we’ve shunned away from the table, and for us to acknowledge when we’re desperate to be fed ourselves. Think of how the crumbs sustain us, then imagine how the feast will feed us all. Thanks be to God.

the return of the dog dooner, and john 9

2009-02-27T19:05:00.005-05:00

So, it's been a long while since I updated the Dog Dooner Cafe. A lot has happened, in the past four months. Namely, Mom died. I'm not sure where November, December and January went, but I'm glad they're over.

I'm taking Intro. to Preaching with Tom Long and Gail O'Day this semester. One of our first assignments had us doing exegetical work with John 9 (the story of the blind man being made to see). All 144 of us then preached a brief, 5 minute long sermon on the text.

Here is mine:

The classroom was cold, which was a good thing. It kept my fellow Con Ed students and I awake during the two-hour afternoon sessions that had somehow been scheduled during prime nap time. I was in a group of chaplains. Half of us were stationed at a private hospital on the north side, and the other half, my half, had been placed at Scottish Rite Children’s Hospital.

At the start of our assignments, we jumped through all sorts of hoops—security checks and vaccinations. When our first day at the site finally arrived, we were given tours of the facility and an ID badge, then told to get to it.

“That’s it?” I remember asking. “You aren’t going to tell us what to do?” My supervisor responded with a pat on the back and those familiar words of encouragement “you’ll figure it out—you’ll learn better this way. Trust me..”

Two months later, I was frustrated. I kept visiting sick kids and their families, but still didn’t feel like I had a clue as to what was happening or what I was doing. This was confirmed by the overwhelming sense that parents were placing their hearts into my hands, and I could think of was “You know I’m 22 and barely passing Hebrew, right?”

At this particular group meeting, I was lamenting our lack of concrete direction. I came back to the same phrase: “I..I just don’t know what I’m doing.” Once I had finished my diatribe, with that statement, my supervisor was quiet for a minute. Then, looking me dead in the eyes, she spoke. “Jon, you keep telling me what you don’t know. Tell me, what do you know?”

I had to think about that. “Well, I know how to make people laugh,” I said. “And I know how to cry. And how to hug. And how to listen.” And soon, my initial denial of ability turned into a deep realization of the talents and abilities that I, indeed did have. Simple things. Sure, I couldn’t solve the world’s problems, but I could play Candy Land with the 4 year old who spent his days alone because his parents have to work.

The man who was born blind had a similar experience. He, being blind from his birth, happened to be in the right place at the right time. Jesus, making his way through Samaria, happened across this man. His disciples, seeing this man, asked Jesus why this man was unable to see, suggesting that it was sin which had blinded him. Jesus refuted their assumption, then proceeded to heal the man.

When word spread of the miraculous healing to the religious authorities of the day, they began to investigate the healing. After confronting the man who was born blind, the Pharisees sought out the man’s parents. His parents, nervous about the consequences of becoming involved with such a tense situation, point the religious leaders back to their son. “He’s of age,” they explained. “Ask him.”

The Pharisees approach the man once again, this time exhorting him to praise God, then exclaiming, “we know this man (Jesus) is a sinner.”

Here is the where things, at least for me, get interesting. The man has a few options. He could agree with the Pharisees and be in good standing with the religious authorities. He could deny that Jesus had anything to do with his healing. He could remain silent altogether.

But he doesn’t do any of those. Instead, he responds from his own personal experience. I can hear him begin to speak, slow and low, nervous and unsure about the new beauty he is able to see all around him. “Whether he is a sinner or not, I Don’t know.” A safe beginning, but he doesn’t stop there—he doesn’t let his reality end with what he doesn’t know. Instead, he exclaims: “One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!”

Then, as the Pharisees ask more questions and begin to make declarations about God and Jesus and Moses, the man who was born blind but can now see calls them all to task: “You don’t know where he comes from, yet he opened my eyes. We now that God does not listen to sinners. He listens to the godly man who does his will. Nobody has ever heard of opening the eyes of a man born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” Instead of being intimidated, he turns the question to them: What do you really know?

It seems to me that we often find ourselves in the midst of situations that are beyond our understanding. When asked what life is about, many of us answer: I don’t know. What is the Trinity? I don’t know. What is the difference between a claim statement, a focus statement, a function statement, and a summary? I don’t know.

The mystery of Christ is that we simply can’t know. I can’t tell you how the incarnation has influenced and continues to influence our lives. I simply don’t know. The beauty of the incarnation, miracles, teachings and resurrections is in their mystery. But there are things I know. I know that somehow, we meet him. That somehow, he impacts our lives and carries us along when we stumble and fall. And, that somehow, however unbelievable it might be, he can make the blind see. We might not know it all, but what we do know changes our lives.

So, it seems, it is our turn to answer. What is it that we know? I bet the answer will change our lives.

My Friend Abby on Calling

2008-10-07T17:10:00.004-05:00

For ConEd, we visit each other's churches and are expected to lead a worship service. My friend, Abby, did one on calling. After reading some passages on specific calls, she gave this homily:

Who are these people? The short answer is well, people. A strange mix of people actually. The first of these is a child, called by a god he did not know. Even though he was in the temple, this was voice that was unfamiliar. And it was a voice calling him to the priesthood, and it was not an easy call. It meant that he would denounce the family of the man who raised him. It meant that he would anoint Saul as king, and later condemn Saul when he visited the witch of Endor. But when God called, Samuel’s answer was, “Speak. I am listening.”

Then Mary, not much more than a child herself according to tradition, who sits in the presence of a divine messenger, utterly confused. Everything she knows says that what Gabriel speaks is not possible. And although she does protest, the angel answers her only once, before she replies, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be according to your word.” It was her answer to God’s call that allowed God to become human—human not as a divinely formed being like Adam, or something sprung forth fully born like the Greek gods, but human, born of a woman with the same pain and anguish as every child since creation.

And finally, three of the disciples. Peter, outspoken, devout, faithful, denying Peter was the one who fell down before Jesus, caught up in his own unworthiness. It can’t be me, Lord. It can’t be. I am full of sin. It seeps out my pores and haunts me in my dreams. It can’t be me. But it was, and when our Lord said to him again, “Come, you will fish for people,” Peter came, trusting that following this Savior would be enough.

We come here today as people who have answered a call, most likely with fear and hesitancy. Can we trust this man from Nazareth? Can we trust his words to be enough? Are we ready for this life of service?

No. I will say assuredly to everyone here, no, we are not ready. But we answered the call, hoping, trusting that it will be enough.

And so we come, answering the call to lift up holy hands in acts of worship and service to our exalted savior and his church.

I invite you now: Come to this center table and place your handprint within the cross. Your handprint will surely touch others and they must overlap if we are to all fit. That’s fine; no, that’s good. For we are not alone in this journey, but have been given friendships and colleagues and fellow travelers along this road to which Christ calls us. And when we are done, our hands will have formed the cross, an image of the Savior. Remember, it is this cross that must form us. Come, each of you.

choosing life, pt. 3

2008-10-01T13:36:00.004-05:00

read pt. 1 and pt. 2.

"I feel like we should offer a prayer of thanksgiving," I told my friend James. We were standing beside the drive-thru ordering speaker of the Wendy's that was attached to the gas station.

"Do it!" he said. I hesitated, but decided that it would be the right thing, so I gathered the Candler crew, and we held hands. Soon, the parking lot came together in a circle. Next thing we knew, a bus full of supporters unloaded and our single circle had turned into a double ring. A woman (who turned out to be Davis' sister) asked "Who's gonna lead the prayer?" James shoved me toward the middle, "Jon will."

I was in the middle of a circle of a 100 or so folks, all holding hands waiting to pray. I should state here that speaking in large groups isn't a fear that I'm generally concerned with. But this terrified me. I had prayed before, sure, but never for someone's life. So, I started with what I knew. We were thankful.

"Holy and Loving God"--a good seminary beginning, I thought. "Holy and Loving God, we come today thankful for your creation and for your gift of life. You have inspired our highest court to choose life. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Each thank you received a response--an Amen, or thankyoujesus or hallelujah--something. "You have told us that you've set before us life and death...you beg us to choose life. Help us to choose life. Help us to choose life for ourselves and for others. Today a battle has been won, and we are happy for it. You have heard your people cry, and you have answered them. Tomorrow is a new day, God. And with it comes new struggles and new challenges. Guide us through those as well. Inspire us to choose life when the hard times hit, and when we don't want to go on."

Then others began to add their own prayers.

There we stood in a parking lot, holding hands and praying together. As the prayer ended, a voice began to shout. "I am Troy Davis! You are Troy Davis! We are Troy Davis!" It spread like wildfire among those gathered, and ended with an explosion of hugs. As we roamed hugging complete strangers, I met Mrs. Davis, Troy Davis' mother. She had been in that circle--holding our hands and praying hard too. I had unknowingly prayed for the mother of a death row inmate. I was baffled.

I can hardly imagine what she is going through. Regardless of what we think about the case, it is when we take down our walls and think about those on death row as people--people with families--that we begin to see the horrors that we are allowing to happen.

Christ's words had new meaning. "Who is my mother and my brother?" He asks. She is my mother, and this man scheduled to die is my brother. I do have a brother on death row. So do you.

Later that evening, a group of us were eating a celebratory dinner at the local Golden Buddha. As we were finishing up, my friend Todd almost shouted "What I want to know is: where are the churches in all this? They should be there alongside us."

"It seems to me," I replied "the church was in the Hess gas station across from the prison standing in front of the Wendy's praying earlier tonight."

choosing life, pt. 2

2008-09-26T18:00:00.006-05:00

read pt. 1 here.

When I arrived at seminary, I made a conscious decision to not put on the activist t-shirt. My time at Elon had spent doing a lot of activist work. And, for some reason, I was eager to shed that defining trait, and try on another one--any other one. Activist work is exhausting. There is so much to work for, and so often, it feels like there are so few working for it.

I had been receiving calls for the past day or so from friends who knew that my college days included work against the death penalty. I wasn't able to make any of the rallies or banner painting sessions, but when I was informed of the prayer vigil to be held outside the state prison as Davis was being executed, I felt something inside me switch--I needed to be there.

I talked to my pastoral care professor that afternoon, and he gave me the go-ahead to miss class. "What kind of pastoral care prof. would I be," he asked "if I made you miss this for class?" So I ran home and started preparations.

I stopped by Kroger on the way, and bought some bread and hummus. Sometimes, in the midst of hard times, we forget simple nourishment. And, as Christ showed us, the breaking of bread together is a powerful way to connect. I made it home, and filled bottles with water, and made t-shirts reading "I have a brother on death row. So do you." I like statements like that--ones that catch you off guard and in the process remind you of the universal family, the one we are all a part of.

Soon, my friends pulled up in a Toyota mini-van. You know the kind, it looks like a moving set of parentheses. I climbed in, and we made our way through rush hour Atlanta traffic to Jackson, GA where the state chooses to execute its prisoners.

We were an unexpected bunch. Two from Indiana had driven all day to make it. Three of us were from Candler, one brought his wife (who is from Ireland!) and to top it off, we had someone who was surprisingly well connected with the campaign to save Troy Davis' life.

About twenty minutes from the prison, our surprisingly well connected friend received a call from (as it would turn out) one of Davis' lawyer. The Supreme Court had granted a stay. Davis would live, at least for the moment.

Because of our proximity to the prison, we kept going. Once we arrived, we weren't allowed on the premises, so we went to the next obvious gathering place--the Hess station and Wendy's across the street.

Here we celebrated with other folks who had made the trek out there. Davis would live! In the midst of hugs and frosties, the crowd parted and Al Sharpton walked through. He left soon, though, and we were left in a parking lot, glad to be with each other.

choosing life, pt. 1

2008-09-24T08:41:00.006-05:00

A cool September morning, much like this one, three years ago saw my friend Grady and I lost in downtown Chapel Hill, NC. We were in a class entitled Christianity and Social Justice, and as part of the class we were expected to participate in service learning.

I had worked with the anti-capital punishment activism peripherally before my junior year. While working for Elon's religious life center, I hosted Sister Helen Prejean's (author of the fantastic book Dead Man Walking) visit to Elon. So, when my professor informed us that we would each be working with a faith-based non-profit organization (the service learning component), I jumped at the opportunity to work with something I was at least vaguely familiar with and certainly interested in.

We parked in front of a plain, ranch-style office building which, according to the signs out front, housed a plethora of non-profits. We followed signs posted for the slightly hidden offices of People of Faith Against the Death Penalty. Over the next months, Grady and I called, stamped, licked envelopes, copied, and faxed. We also stood outside Central Prison in Raleigh until 2 in the morning holding candles, standing in solidarity, and praying for mercy--not just for the soon to be executed, but for all of us, all of our hands were guilty.

The past few days, there has been an urgent push to save the life of Troy Davis. Davis was convicted of killing a police officer over 15 years ago. Since then seven of the nine original witnesses have recanted or changed their original statements in sworn affidavits. The case has captured the attention of global leaders like Desmond Tutu, Jimmy Carter, and Pope Benedict XVI.

A small, dedicated group of Candler students took up this cause. Last night, returning to my roots of anti-death penalty I activsm, I joined them.

The God Who Nudges

2008-09-08T21:51:00.006-05:00

I have all of my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Tuesdays, I've got courses at 8, 9:30, 1 and 6pm. Thursday is the same minus the 6pm marathon class that lasts until 9.

So, add it up, I've only had two days of classes, although we've been in school for just at a week.

I'm already behind.

I should have expected this. It is graduate school. I should have readied myself more by dusting off the alarm clock, warming up my typing fingers, and practicing skim reading (because, let me tell you, there ain't no way I'm gonna read every last word I'm supposed to read!).

But, as often happens, in the midst of overwhelming moments, God sends a little relief. A little nudge here or there to remind us of where we are going, and that, somehow, we know we're on the right path.

Each morning, I read small reflections from two books. The first is from a collection of of thoughts called Bread for the Journey by Henri Nouwen. The second is Glimpses of Grace, a collection of the writings of Madeline L'Engle. I've posted from these separately before, but today both of these writings were a little nudge toward the Divine. I share them with you here.

It is an ongoing temptation to think of ourselves as living under a curse. The loss of a friend, an illness, an accident, a natural disaster, a war, or any failure can make us quickly think that we are no good and are being punished. This temptation to think of our lives as full of curses is even greater when all the media present us day after day with stories about human misery.

Jesus came to bless us, not to curse us. But we must choose to receive that blessing and hand it on to others. Blessings and curses are always placed in front of us. We are free to choose. God says, Choose the blessings!

"Choosing the Blessings," Bread for the Journey, Henri Nouwen

All I have to know is that I do not have to know in limited, finite terms of provable fact that which I believe. Infallibility has led to schisms in the Church, to atheism, to deep misery. All I have to know is that God is love, and that love will not let us go, not any of us. When I say that I believe in the resurrection of the body, and I do, I am saying what I believe to be true, not literal, but true. Literalism and infallibility go hand in hand, but mercy and truth have kissed each other. To be human is to be fallible, but it is also to be capable of love and to be able to retain that childlike openness which enables us to go bravely into the darkness and towards that life of love and truth which will set us free.

"Mercy and Truth Have Kissed," Glimpses of Grace, Madeline L'Engle

When I Say I'm a Christian

2008-08-29T06:53:00.001-05:00

I'm not one for cheesy poems, but this one seems different. It was written by Carol Wimmer (not Maya Angelou as popularly credited).

When I say ... "I am a Christian,"
I'm not shouting "I'm clean livin'.
I'm whispering "I was lost,
Now I'm found and forgiven."

When I say ."I am a Christian,"
I don't speak of this with pride.
I'm confessing that I stumble,
And need CHRIST to be my guide.

When I say ... "I am a Christian,"
I'm not trying to be strong.
I'm professing that I'm weak,
And need HIS strength to carry on.

When I say ... "I am a Christian,"
I'm not bragging of success.
I'm admitting I have failed,
And need God to clean my mess.

When I say ... "I am a Christian,"
I'm not claiming to be perfect.
My flaws are far too visible,
But God believes I am worth it.

When I say ... "I am a Christian,"
I still feel the sting of pain.
I have my share of heartaches,
So I call upon His name.

When I say ... "I am a Christian,"
I'm not holier than thou.
I'm just a simple sinner
Who received God's good grace somehow.

Crumbs from the Table.

2008-08-18T21:48:00.002-05:00

Sunday's lectionary Gospel reading is one of the hardest I've heard in a while. We've come off a few weeks of fun miracles--the feeding of the 5,000, Jesus walking on water, etc. We've witnessed Jesus' ability to care for people in really pragmatic ways (I mean, he fed people--lots of fish and bread) and his desire to strengthen their faith (step out of the boat Peter).

But this Sunday, the lectionary lands us in the middle of one of our hardest encounters with Christ. The Jesus we know wouldn't turn people away. But here, in Matthew 15, we see Jesus tell the Canaanite woman (very directly) that He won't heal her daughter because she isn't a Jew.

She doesn't give up. She asks again, and this time he tells her that it's not right to give dogs the children's bread. It's probably safe to assume we aren't talking about our family pet here. This isn't a compliment. In fact, I'd say its mean.

Imagine--Jesus being mean? Not very Christ-like, eh?

She still doesn't give up. She responds: Yes, Lord. But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master's tables.

Wow. As I read that aloud in church Sunday, it pierced me. Her faith in the crumbs made her daughter well. Jesus changed his mind.

That is where Christ is in this story. He's in the healing, but more importantly He shows us that minds can be changed. And He proves to us that His love is open to all.

We all are searching for the crumbs from the table. Think of how the crumbs sustain us, then imagine how the feast will heal us all.

Thank God.

blessings,
jon.

Madeline L'Engle on Forgiveness

2008-08-09T10:27:00.002-05:00

And ultimately forgiveness is a gift of grace rather than an act of will. I have to be willing to forgive, but I cannot will myself to forgive. I can forgive with my mind, but forgiveness is finally a matter of the heart. And the forgiveness of the heart comes from God, not from me. My part in it is to be willing to accept it. One test which indicates whether or not forgiveness has really taken place is to look at whatever it is that needs to be forgiven and see if it still hurts. If it does, forgiveness has not yet happened. But I have also learned, and I have learned it through pain, that I must be patient with myself. Just as my body is going to need more time to co plete its healing from the physical trauma of the accident, so my heat, my spirit, also need time, and I, ever impatient, must be patient with myself.

Dented Cans

2008-08-03T16:44:00.002-05:00

Two weeks ago, YTI hosted A Day of Interfaith Youth Service. It was a smashing success. We had over 60 kids descend upon the Atlanta Community Food Bank and MedShare International.

The day started out rough. I scraped a van on a cement piling, then was bugged the whole time I was driving to the food bank. The night before was a challenge. A beautiful worship service suddenly turned into a sideshow. And I was heading toward the end of a ten-day on duty stint. It was hard.

By the time we arrived at the food bank, I was ill. I was tired and grumpy and pissy and irritated. When we gathered in their volunteer room to eat lunch, I discovered my sandwich was nothing but bread and tuna--plain tuna.

We watched a cute video on the food bank, then were sent to our stations in the warehouse. I mindlessly inspected cans for expiration dates and damage. Soon, four hours had passed.

It was nice--doing mindless, productive work. In the midst of a program that challenges the deepest notions of God and the world, it was calming and relieving to accomplish something. At the end of the day they told us the amount of work we'd done--over 7,000 meals were sorted and packaged.

It was a powerful experience in another way. As we sorted, the majority of goods that passed through our hands were dented and damaged. Some were completely broken, others were jagged. But most were just the cans that were passed over because they carried a dent or two.

Yet it was these dented cans that would feed the hungry, and it that way, they carried life.

Then I realized, we're the dented cans.

blessings.
jon.

love @ YTI

2008-07-11T14:50:00.004-05:00

For the month of July, I'm working with the Youth Theological Initiative (YTI) at Emory University. The program brings students between their junior and senior years in high school together for a one month session of fellowship, classes, and theology with a little service and fun thrown in.

It's an intense month. Relationship are created quickly, and they run deep. Stories are told alongside personal experiences, and soon we are swimming in a sea of humanity--and realizing that something must be connecting us all.

I recently had one of these experiences. I shared with some scholars (what we call the kids who come) about my experience as a gay Christian. At one point in our discussion, I stated my belief that "loving someone is never the wrong answer."

Here is part of a note that one wrote to me about that time together:

To truly love someone is to want them to be happy and fulfilled with their lives, without any regard to your own happiness or comfort. To see love as such a pure emotion is to actually understand what Jesus did for us. As Christians we often just say things about love loosely, but today everything has become clear, love is the most powerful emotion and decision we can ever experience and that LOVE should never be conditioned, it should be given to everyone just like Jesus did.

So why are we so fixated about an issue like homosexuality, whether God approves of it or not, whether we should tell them its wrong or not, if a person can touch so many young people simply by singing such a beautiful song that complimented the breeze, the grass, the trees, and just reminded us a little bit, of God's creation and how he uses us in different ways? Put simply, how [God] loves us infinitely.

These kids, they amaze me.
blessings.
jon.

2008-07-11T14:47:00.000-05:00

colors mold
senses meld
cold becomes warm
nervousness becomes peace
barriers become boundless
awe and majesty overwhelm earthly passions
we have met.

An Easter Email

2008-05-15T16:12:00.002-05:00

I stumbled across the Easter e-mail (that's right) from Dr. Jan Love, Dean of Candler School of Theology. I meant to share it then, but later is better than never.

blessings,
jon.

This is the Easter Oration of St. Gregory the Theologian, 4th Century. It is less a prayer than a declaration. I like to read it as a prayer, however, and offer it as such here.

The translation I am using is from Let Us Pray to the Lord, edited by Georges Lemopoulos.

Yesterday I was crucified with him;
today I am glorified with him.
Yesterday I died with him;
today I am made alive in him.
Yesterday I was buried with him;
today I am raised up with him.
Let us offer ourselves to him
who suffered and rose again for us.
Let us become divine for his sake,
since for us he became human.
He assumed the worse that he might give us the better.
He became poor that by his poverty we might become rich.
He accepted the form of a servant
that we might win back our freedom.
He came down that we might be lifted up.
He was tempted that through him we might conquer.
He was dishonored that he might glorify us.
He died that he might save us.
He ascended that he might draw to himself us,
who were thrown down through the fall of sin.
Let us give all, offer all, to him
who gave himself a ransom and reconciliation for us.
We needed an incarnate God, a God put to death,
that we might live.
We were put to death together with him
that we might be cleansed.
We rose again with him
because we were put to death with him.
We were glorified with him
because we rose again with him.
A few drops of blood
recreate the whole of creation!

The Lone, Wild Bird

2008-04-19T09:36:00.002-05:00

This was on the front of the bulletin for the Sacred Worth Sending Forth Service.

In secret depths you knit my frame,
Before my birth you spoke my name;
Within my soul, as close as breath,
So near to me, in life, in death.

O search me, God, my heart reveal,
Renew my life, my spirit heal;
For I am yours, I rest in you,
Great Spirit, come, rest in me, too.

The Runaway Semester

2008-04-18T06:27:00.004-05:00

This semester has been a bear. Between four classes, ConEd, a new job, and worrying about things like, you know, the trinity and such, I've been busy--and that's just school. Outside of school, my life has had its own roller coaster ride, mostly due to my mother's lymphoma. This semester has been a bear.

But like many hard times, there is an end in sight. I'm less than a week away from the end of classes and two from the end of finals. And this is to my great relief. Maybe then I will be able to take a more realistic survey of what this semester has been and what it has meant.

This week at school has been particularly thought provoking. On Tuesday, our time in Worship to gather at the Table as a community, Sacred Worth (Candler's LGBTQAlly group) mounted their own Day of Silence a few weeks early (this is due mostly to the quadrennial UMC General Conference which is where many of us will be when the National Day of Silence is celebrated). To honor their efforts, Holy Communion was celebrated in silence--complete silence, to remember those who walk this path voiceless and lonely. It was a powerful moment in the life of our school community. As we walked to the table, our intentional silence echoed the silence that the church forces upon LGBTQ students, clergy and friends. As we gathered to celebrate the feast of life, we remembered the death that the church had forced upon its own--the people it claimed from birth as Children of God.

The next day was the Sending Forth Service of Sacred Worth. This service honors those LGBTQ graduating students. As they take the next steps on their journey, they do so with our blessing. We gave each student (who could be open--not all can, thanks UMC) a stole as a parting gift. Then we laid a stole on the altar for the silenced among us--the ones who hadn't even thought about seminary because they didn't think they'd be welcomed, the ones who came then were rejected, for the ones whose gifts would be wasted because the church they loved and dedicated themselves to couldn't move beyond difference into community. Then we celebrated communion--this time with joy and resurrection in our hearts. It was life-giving.

The following day, in my Intro. to Public Worship class, we began our final projects--25 minute worship services. At 830 in the morning, I'm not too keen on worship or shouting or clapping or anything really, but we gathered in the chapel, anyway. The sermon was given in a quick, shoot-from-the-hip, repeat-a-lot style that is very energetic but a little too spunky for an early morning worship. I zoned in and out for a few minutes, then I came to right when I needed to. She was talking about Christ's call for us to go and tell, and the reason we needed to do it was this: "Go and tell for the victory and deliverance of others."

This summed up a struggle I've had this whole semester. When is being gay part of who are or who you are? After not being all that involved with LBGTQ activism and after taking a job at a church where I can't really be open, I was reminded why it's important that I be both of those--involved and open. Because silence isn't OK. Because I've fought long enough for my voice. Because others deserve the victory and deliverance that I've tasted. Because it is what Christ would have me do.

blessings.
jon.

The Resurrection, from "The Rosary Sonnets"

2008-03-23T19:28:00.007-05:00

Oh, the rush with which the forgotten mind awakens
Under the day a well of dark where color dwells
Until it learns the art of light and can reveal,
In neglected things, the freshness thought darkens.

With grey mastery distance starts to blur the horror.
Already the days begin to set around the loss.
The after-silence of his death becomes porous
To the gossip of regret that follows failure.

Through the cold, quiet nighttime of the grave underground,
The earth concentrated on him with complete longing
Until his sleep could recall the dark from beyond
To enfold memory lost in the requiem of mind.

The moon stirs a wave of brightening in the stone.
He rises clothed in the young colours of dawn.

(Text from Conamara Blues, a collection of poems by John O'Donohue. Image from the Digital Image Archive, Pitts Theology Library, Emory University.)

The Crucifixion: A Sonnet by John O'Donohue

2008-03-22T08:23:00.002-05:00

It is Finished.

2008-03-21T06:54:00.001-05:00

2008-03-19T21:33:00.004-05:00

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.

The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?"Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me."

Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord--and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them.

If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

When he had gone out, Jesus said, "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, 'Where I am going, you cannot come.' I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Another Kind of Love Story

2008-02-14T21:06:00.003-05:00

Today, in a class, a fellow student offered the opening devotion. He enlightened us on a little V-Day history, then gave a prayer. Before he started, he admitted that he edited a popular song to be a prayer. I've seen this done before (most notable in Meet the Parents when Ben Stiller's character, caught off guard by being asked to pray, begins to say every borderline religious phrase he can think of), but I was not prepared for what was next. We bowed our heads, glad to start the day in some quiet reflection, and he began to pray. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

That's right.

Rod Stewart + Jesus = pee my pants funny.

In other news, I stumble across this collection of real life love stories, and my heart was warmed in a non-cheesy, overly commercialized sort of way. (scroll to the bold sub-titles)

blessings,
jon.

mama

2008-02-08T08:45:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday, at a Doctor's appointment, my mom was informed that she had an inoperable mass growing in her chest. A biopsy was scheduled for the next day, and when the results came back, they were inconclusive. She's going for round two of biopsy next week, and then there's nothing to do but wait.

This morning, during my daily reading time, Madeline L'Engle had this to say (from her book Glimpses of Grace):

My friend Dana and I talk about how we want to make everything all right for those we love, and cannot. Her mother died of pancreatic cancer only a few months ago. WE say to each other that if we were God we would make everything all right, and then we stop. Look at each other. Because we suddenly see that making everything all right would not make everything all right. We would not be human beings. We would then be no more than puppets obeying the strings of the master puppeteer. We agree sadly that it is a good thing that we are not God; we do not have to understand God's ways, or the suffering and brokenness and pain that sooner or later comes to us all.
But we do have to know in the very depths of our being that the ultimate end of the story, no matter how many aeons it takes, is going to be all right.

Maybe we can't make it all right now, but I sure wish we could.

Almost Home.

2008-01-28T22:16:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, Mary Chapin Carpenter knows just what to say.

These are from her song "Almost Home."

I saw my life this morning
Lyin' at the bottom of a drawer
All this stuff I'm savin'
God knows what this junk is for
And whatever I believed in
This is all I have to show
What the hell were all the reasons
For holding on for such dear life
Here's where I let go

I'm not running
I'm not hiding
I'm not reaching
I'm just resting in the arms of the great wide open
Gonna pull my soul in
And I'm almost home

I saw you this morning
You were staring back at me
From an ancient photograph
Stuck between some letters and some keys
And I was lost for a moment
In the ache of old goodbyes
Sometimes all that we can know is
That there's no such thing as no regrets
but baby it's all right

I'm not running
I'm not hiding
I'm not reaching
I'm just resting in the arms of the great wide open
Gonna pull my soul in
And I'm almost home

And there's no such thing as no regrets
But baby it's all right

I'm not running
I'm not hiding
I'm not reaching
I'm just resting in the arms of the great wide open
Gonna pull my soul in
And I'm almost...

I'm not running down
I'm not hiding out
I'm not reaching here
I'm just resting in the arms of the great wide open
Gonna pull my soul in
And I'm almost home

Up to the Mountain - A tribute to MLK

2008-01-21T11:14:00.001-05:00

Here are the words of my friend Matt, who says everything more beautifully and hopeful than I ever could.

I've been thanking God for the audio-recording technology of the 60s that can carry his voice over all of these years. I'm in awe of the man. I wonder if God ever wove a betters set of vocal chords. The man's voice could make you believe that Peace put skin on and started talking, and he could string words together in the most beautiful and powerful and truthful way I've ever heard (in my book he might come in second, only to Abraham Lincoln).

The man was a prophet. I have no doubt about that. I believe that God was whispering in his ear just as much as he was whispering in the ears of the Old Testament prophets and the writers of the New Testament. Maybe that seems silly, but maybe God still loves to raise people up to lay His dream out in front of crooked people and crooked nations.

Yesterday as I was running, I listened to Beyond Vietnam - a speech King gave exactly one year before he was murdered. It's haunting. So much of what he speaks about Vietnam is true of the situation in Iraq. So much of what he speaks about the United States of the 1960's is still terribly true of the United States in 2008. And I think that's what I'm getting at….

For God's sake, don't celebrate today as the day of a black man whose dream for black people came true. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a child of God who longed for God's dream for humanity to become a reality. It's the same dream that prophet after prophet delivered to Israel, and prophet after prophet they killed. A dream that we would see everyone as a child of God - the poor and the rich; the black and the white; the capitalist and the communist; the American killed in the World Trade Center and the pilot who hijacked the plane; the American soldier and the Iraqi child killed by American bombs; Martin Luther King, Jr. and James Earl Ray.

He said America was a nation that was sick, that racism and the war in Vietnam were only symptoms of a deeper sickness. I think America is still very sick, and could still stand to listen to his diagnosis. He was done with war and violence and ready to lay down his life for his enemies and men that hated him. He was broken and flawed and had the world on his trail (not to mention the F.B.I.) to point out those flaws- but I long to be like him - to have that fire in my belly, and that willingness to lay my life down for God's dream.

So pull out your Bibles today, read through the prophets (God's "I have a dream speeches), and if you are my friend at all - do not let this day go by without digging into some of MLK's words.

thanks for the reminder, matt.

blessings,
jon.

a fountain of blessings

2008-01-21T09:21:00.000-05:00

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

A word or two from Henri Nouwen

2008-01-17T07:15:00.000-05:00

Every morning before I get started, I read two day books. The first I have already quoted here, at the Cafe', focuses on Madeline L'Engle's works. The second is called Bread for the Journey. It is filled with the thoughts and reflections of the wonderful Henri Nouwen (If you haven't heard about him, read Reaching Out or The Wounded Healer to start).

Today is the first day of my second semester of seminary (round two, ding ding--as they say). I'm excited and ready for a routine. I'm a little apprehensive about the work load (we have an extra academic class this semester). Mostly, I'll be glad to see friends again.

Nouwen's reflection for today put my worries to rest.

Here is what he said:

Often we want to be somewhere other than where we are, or even to be someone other than who we are. We tend to compare ourselves constantly with others and wonder why we are not as rich, as intelligent, as simple, as generous, or as saintly as they are. Such comparisons make us feel guilty or ashamed, or jealous. It is very important to realize that our vocation is hidden in where we are and who we are. We are unique human beings, each with a call to realize in life what nobody else can, and to realize it in the concrete context of the here and now.
We will never find our vocations by trying to figure out whether we are better or worse than others. We are good enough to do what we are called to do. Be yourself!

So I'll take Nouwen's advice and stop comparing, feeling inadequate or any of the other things that stand between me and God. Maybe it's the pilgrim way. Maybe we're all pilgrims.

blessings for the way,

jon.

2008-01-16T20:45:00.000-05:00

It's snowing in Atlanta, on the eve of my second semester in seminary. Classes start tomorrow, yet there is that inevitable buzz of hope that class will be canceled. It's a routine thing, here in the south, for it sleet or snow a little and for everyone to pray hard that night to not have to go to work or school the next day.

There's a magic about snow that will envelop you if you're open to it. It's a calmness, a hopefulness, a grace that floats down and makes even the cold beautiful. In Copenhagen, it snowed a fair amount, and every time it did the snow carried with it renewal and new meaning. (read about one of those experiences here).

In choir practice today, we were singing the Pilgrim's Hymn as the snow really began to gently glide to earth. We all gasped as we looked out of the windows of the chapel, surprised and glad to be touched by God in such a visual way. Then we sang these words:

Even before we call on Your name
To ask You, O God,
When we seek for the words to glorify
You,
You hear our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.

Glory to the Father,
And to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe Your name,
And through all the days that follow so
fast,
We trust in You;
Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.

Both now and for ever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen.

And with the swells of the music came swells of snow and God was there and it was good.

Sometimes I think I'd like to be a pilgrim--that this title is more that sufficient and worthy.

a pilgrim's blessings, then.
jon.

2008-01-03T22:14:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, my parent's gave me a copy of a fantastic little day book called Glimpses of Grace. It is a collection of Madeline L'Engle's writings compiled and edited by L'Engle authority (and retired Elon professor) Carole F. Chase. This is the piece for January 1st. It's fitting for us now because in this time of horrors and despair, we have the hope of the stars and in the God who created them.

But we rebel against the impossible. I sense a wish in some professional religion-mongers to make God possible, to make him comprehensible to the naked intellect, domesticate him so that he's easy to believe in. Every century the Church makes a fresh attempt to make Christianity acceptable. But an acceptable Christianity is not Christian; a comprehensible God is no more than an idol.

I don't want that kind of God.
What kind of God, then?

One time, when I was little more than a baby, I was taken to visit my grandmother, who was living in a cottage on a nearly uninhabited stretch of beach in northern Florida. All I remember of this visit is being picked up from my crib in what seemed the middle of the night and carried from my bedroom and out of doors, where I had my first look at the stars.

it must have been an unusually clear and beautiful night for someone to have said, "Let's wake the baby and show her the stars." The night sky, the constant rolling of breakers against the shore, the stupendous light of the stars, all made an indelible impression on me. I was intuitively aware not only of a beauty I had never seen before but also that the world was far greater than the protected limits of the small child's world which was all that I had known thus far. I had a total if not very conscious, moment of revelation; I saw creation bursting the bounds of daily restriction, and stretching out from dimension to dimension, beyond any human comprehension.

I had been taught to say my prayers at night: Our Father, and a long string of God-blesses, and it was that first showing of the galaxies which gave me an awareness that the God I spoke to at bedtime was extraordinary and not just a bigger and better combination of the grownup powers of my mother and father.

This early experience was freeing, rather than daunting, and since it was the first, it has been the foundation for all other such glimpses of glory. And it is probably why the sound of the ocean and the sight of the stars give me more healing, more whole-ing, than anything else.

The Other Half of Christmas

2007-12-31T17:08:00.000-05:00

This past sunday I delivered a sermon at my home church in North Carolina. It's a little long in print, but moves fast. Before you actually read the sermon, you should probably check out the Gospel reading for the day. The Hebrew Scripture and Epistle Lesson are also included.

The holidays are a time of traditions. From watching Santa arrive at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to favorite Christmas dishes, traditions define our time together during Christmas. One of my family’s traditions is to read the Nativity story on Christmas eve. We read it from the same old family Bible that’s been passed down from generation to generation. My dad turns to Luke, and in a quiet voice begins to read…

We never read about this, though. Partly, that’s because in Luke the next scene we are offered is Jesus’ circumcision then, bam, he’s teaching in the temple. Luke also offers a much tidier ending. “But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” That’s nice.

Matthew, however, is hardly as neat. Matthew presents a more frantic story; and while we like to read the birth narrative reverently and calmly, there are some pretty anxious moments in Matthew’s version of events. We all know the first part: Mary finds out (by way of an Angel, mind you) that’s she’s pregnant even though she has done nothing that might make her with child. Joseph is visited in a dream by an angel encouraging him to stay with his wife who is expecting a baby that isn’t his. The baby is born in a cowshed out back behind an inn as a star rises above that is brighter and bigger than any other star that night. Shepherds somehow make their way to see the newborn child. So do wise men who bring a wealth of gifts. and For an instant, there is a Kodak moment of Christmas perfection.

Then things get even crazier, according to Matthew. Joseph gets this intense dream where an angel says “Hey, listen up Joe, get the kid and haul it to Egypt. Herod’s out to get him.” And Joseph does as he’s told and uproots his family for Egypt (the land that enslaved his people generations before—just so we’re clear). And, with the holy family safely stowed in a far off land, Herod proceeds to kill all the boys under the age of two in the region around Bethlehem in an attempt to thwart any sort of revolutionary child king. And Rachel weeps for her children. Jesus is saved.

This is the other half of Christmas. And it’s a hard half to confront. right before my final exams began, I first glanced at the gospel lection for today. “The Massacre of the Infants,” it read or “the slaughter of the innocents” as Dan called it, jumped at me. it Seemed rather appropriate at that point of my first semester of school. “Oh,” I thought, “I can just talk about seminary finals, then.”

I read more closely, though, and realized just what a challenge lay before me. Here I am: twenty-two and barely a semester into my theological education and I am being asked to discuss quite possibly one of the most theologically challenging passages in the Bible. It’s challenging because it forces us to fundamentally wonder about the nature of a God that would allow the death of children for the sake of his own. It makes us question the notion of a savior that would run while not warning others to flee as well, or of a God that wouldn’t make that part of the plan.

And I had to wonder, “Am I old enough for this?” That question has been the common denominator of the past six months. Am I old enough to have a mortgage? Or a cat? Am I old enough for my friends to be getting married? Am I old enough to be fixing the tiles that crumbled off my shower? Or to be I receiving major kitchen appliances for Christmas?

And beyond the little changes have been much larger ones. Twice a week, I don my security ID and make my rounds on Four East at Scottish Rite Children’s Hospital in Atlanta. Rarely are there patients that have been there for more than a few days. So my time is spent making initial visits to patients and families, and attempting to assist them in some way. Mostly, after I go into a room and introduce myself as a chaplain (talk about wondering if you’re old enough…), the families politely answer a few questions then indirectly or, sometimes painfully directly, let me know it’s time to go. But every once and while, someone opens up. A young parent wants to know why this is happening to their child? If it was something they did? They want to know why bad things happen, or why God lets the innocent become ill. And I stand in those rooms, with these people bearing their souls to me and I want to say “You know I’m twenty-two, in my first semester of seminary and barely making a B in Hebrew.right?”

But that isn’t their concern. Their concern is finding a way to get through the ordeal they are facing, and they want me to help them.

I think Mary and Joseph might have felt the same way. I can imagine Joseph thinking “Am I old enough to be taking my family to Egypt?” Mary might wonder “am I old enough to be a mother?” We all question our own preparedness in the world around us. Somehow, I don’t think you ever feel old enough.

But hear the good news of the story! This, the other half of Christmas, is the promise coming to life. Until this point, the story has been grand—angels and singing, shepherds, magi and gifts. The promise is said to have been fulfilled.

But if we journey with the story as though it is the first time we’ve heard it, we don’t know that yet. We don’t know about Lazarus coming back to life or the sick being made well. We haven’t gotten to the part where Christ walks on water or feeds a hillside of hungry followers.

We just have a manger, a new mother and father, a small child and an angry king. The flight to Egypt and the mere survival of Christ, then, is a morsel of promise made real in an otherwise fairy-tale of a story.

And in this morsel of survival is a world of truth and hope and certainty in the midst of the most uncertain times much like the ones we live in now.

Like Rachel we weep for the brokenness of this world. We cry out when it seems that good has been slaughtered by evil. We tremble when we witness the destruction of war and famine and drought.

I think about my patient Bobby. The four-year old had been admitted to the hospital with an abdominal wound which came from his brother who stabbed him (accidentally) with a box cutter while playing power rangers. I sat with Bobby for 3 hours or so, playing candy land, watching power rangers, and talking about what he wanted for Christmas. He knew he was being released later that day, so he talked about home, and how he was ready to “get out of this town.” What he didn’t know was that the Department of Family and Children Services would be picking him up. He would be leaving the hospital, but he wouldn’t be going home.

And I wept for Bobby as I left that day. I felt like I had abandoned him like everyone else had in his life. I was angry at a society that would let a child be harmed like he was. I was angry at the God that didn’t protect him.

Don’t you see, this is the other half of Christmas—It’s a shot of reality in an otherwise fairytale experience. And in the midst of that harsh truth, there is the light of the fact that the Christ lived through trying times, and suffered with us so we might be able to survive this world.

This is the joy of the other half of Christmas—we can make it. God is indeed with us, because as the author of Hebrews reminds us, Christ has suffered along side us. And for this reason Jesus is not ashamed to call us brothers and sisters.

The Nativity isn’t just a pleasant little tale that weaves a story around angels and sheep.

It is a promise made real.

Amen.

The Question of the Semester

2007-12-16T17:40:00.000-05:00

The cold air is back in Atlanta. "Finally," most of us sigh. Sometimes it seems that summer lasts 9 months down here.

Copenhagen has been on my mind alot recently. Maybe it's the chill. Maybe I'm homesick for it, but I miss it. I miss the people, the change in perspective, the bikes and the weather and the friends I found there. We didn't really have fights there, or drama. We lived and loved and ate and explored our way through Copenhagen and Denmark--knowing that there was always more to discover.

I look back on my blog posts I wrote during my time abroad (like this one) and I remember such good times, such inspiring times.

This semester hasn't been bad by any stretch of the imagination. But it has been hard. It has been three and a half months of memorizing foreign characters and praying for hurting children and wondering what it all means when you put it together.

It has been a semester of new identities--figuring out what changed since Elon, and what stayed the same. It has been a semester of publicly acknowledging my plans (by just being in Seminary), and being curious as to if that is really where I'm going (I think it is.).

Mostly, it has been a semester of "Am I old enough for this?" Of friends getting married and mortgage payments, and people giving you the authority to be their minister.

And the more I think about it (and oddly enough, write a sermon for the church that is ordaining me), I realize none of us are old enough, and all of us are to old.

And that's why we need the child-king and the crucified savior and the sustainer.

Merry Christmas!

blessings.
jon.

smile

2007-12-07T07:40:00.001-05:00

a great little clip to give you a chuckle....more to come!

The Irrational Reason for the the Season

2007-12-02T17:39:00.000-05:00

Friday Mid-day Eucharist is one of my favorite things about Candler. Period.

Every Friday, the same core group of 40 or so gather in Cannon Chapel after a long week of classes. I make my way from Hebrew, which gives me reason to need time to rest and recover.

It's a simple service really. Most of the general parts of a church service are there, excepting the sermon. Instead, after the reading of the Gospel, we sit together, quietly thinking about the words we just heard--wondering if any meaning sat in them for us, for our studies, for our school, for our world.

Then comes my absolute favorite part. After the Prayers of the People (which are offered so genuinely by the people who have gathered), we share communion. Every week, we pause our scholastic endeavors to join together in the bread and wine before heading into the weekend which all to often is as hectic as our school week. It's a time for acknowledging the week just had, and preparing for the week to come.

Advent is much the same way. It lets us review the year that passed and prepare for the coming days. Advent, however, can be an irritating time. Because it is a season of waiting and preparation it insists that we slow down. Slowing down means swimming against the current swell of American consumerism in an increasingly globalized world, not to mention a secular Christmas that is celebrated before we have any birth to celebrate.

But it is necessary waiting, because without it, we would have no time to understand exactly what Christmas is.

This week, as we began our advent sojourn in Friday Mid-day Eucharist, the program had a few lines from Madeline L'Engle on its cover. Here is how it read:

This is the irrational season
when love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
there'd have been no room for the child.

As I read this poem, I was reminded of how irrational the whole thing was. Mary--a virgin? Son of God in a stable? Lazarus to life? Leaper healed? Deaf hear? The meek will inherit? Bread of Life? Blood of Salvation? A criminal's death for a king? Heaven for a thief? Missing body? Death no more? For you? For me?

It is amazing really, this irrationality. It's amazing because somehow, it makes sense. It's amazing because somewhere through the absurdity and irrationality, there is undeserved grace and unconditional love that holds us close.

keep watch.

blessings,

jon.

The Start of December

2007-11-30T19:22:00.000-05:00

Who knew that a semester would fly by so quickly! It seems like it was last week that I was awkwardly meeting new friends and figuring out what seminary was all about. Now, I find myself a week away from the end of class wondering where the semester went.

I know where it went. It went by in the form of hospital visits and games of candy land, late night meals at Chili's and Waffle House, hours working at the library and hours avoiding studying there. It was spent memorizing Hebrew vocab and writing about the differences in the versions of Noah and the flood. It was spent talking about feelings and how we were adjusting and what surprised us most about school.

But more importantly, we lived together, prayed together, sang together, loved together, doubted together, and (this is by far the most fun one) ate together...a lot, actually.

I'm ready for a new semester. I'm ready to start over with a clean slate now that I know what is going on. But I hope I don't loose the enthusiasm, the curiousity, and the passion that have defined this semester.

derek webb to rescue.

2007-11-17T11:13:00.000-05:00

Derek Webb was at Eddie's Attic in Decatur last night. He was great.

And he sang one of my favorites about where our allegiances lie.

Perspective is good.

here are the lyrics:

A King and a Kingdom

who's your brother, who's your sister
you just walked passed him
i think you missed her
as we're all migrating to the place where our father lives
'cause we married in to a family of immigrants

my first allegiance is not to a flag, a country, or a man
my first allegiance is not to democracy or blood
it's to a king & a kingdom

there are two great lies that ive heard:
the day you eat of the fruit of that tree, you will not surely die
and that Jesus Christ was a white, middle-class republican
and if you wanna be saved you have to learn to be like Him

my first allegiance is not to a flag, a country, or a man
my first allegiance is not to democracy or blood
it's to a king & a kingdom

but nothing unifies like a common enemy
and weve got one, sure as hell
but he may be living in your house
he may be raising up your kids
he may be sleeping with your wife
oh no, he may not look like you think

rain.

2007-11-14T23:44:00.000-05:00

Never has rain smelled sweeter or been such a sweet relief.

blessings.
jon.

The Half-Way Christian

2007-11-11T18:45:00.000-05:00

I really don't like half-way Christians.

You know the people I'm talking about. They claim to believe in Christ, then push people away from Him.

Or they say they care about God's creation: "I recycle!" the say. But recycling only happens when it is convenient. You want to shout that Christianity isn't convenient--you don't get to choose it just when it happens to fit.

Better yet, they are the people who watch the church clock. "What do you mean we have to sing all six verses?," they wonder aloud. "We are supposed to be out of here at noon! We have to beat the baptists to lunch..."

Or those who mourn for the homeless population's reality, but when begged for a dollar, refuse to give it. "They'll just buy drugs or alcohol," the half-way Christian argues.

What about the people who sing of God's love for everyone, but really can't stand that black kid who came to church today wearing a baseball hat and low riding pants?

Or the ones whose words of love begin to go sour as attempts for inclusion merely bring an exclusion of another sort?

Or they squabble about the details--about who God loves more or who sins less or who got it first or who hasn't ever gotten it.

They try. They fail. They say they're Christian. They aren't.

And the worst part is: I'm one of them.

Seven Things

2007-11-05T07:33:00.000-05:00

Two weekends ago, I found myself back at Elon for my first homecoming since graduation. I decided that on Sunday, I would go to church and give them a quick update as to my life at seminary since they were supporting it so graciously. I wanted to make it short and sweet, so here are the top seven things they don't tell you before you go to seminary.

(7) Now, this one might be particular to a Methodist school. But apparently, John Wesley carries as much authority as Jesus Christ himself.

(6) Hebrew is, without a doubt, as hard as it sounds and looks.

(5) The UCC is sooooooooo better than any other denomination.

(4) Candy Land is a million times more fun when you play it with a 4 year old in his hospital bed.

(3) If you look hard enough, you can find Christ in anyone's eyes.

(2) I knew this before I came to seminary, but it seems even more true now. At the end of the day, after the discussions and readings and questions, remember two things. Believe the Story. Love the People.

(1) My life will never be the same.

So thanks to everyone who has believed my story and loved me, even from a distance.

blessings.
jon.

A Month Later.....an update.

2007-11-03T16:29:00.001-05:00

Wow, so, who would've ever known that a month would pass so quickly! Here are some highlights from the past 3 weeks or so.

The Choir from Metro State Women's Prison
This choir blew my mind. They sang a little of everything--from gospel standards to wonderful songs written by women in the choir. My favorite was one written by the prisoner which grew to a fantastic chorus of "He'ssssssssssssssssssss a fixxxxx---er." Looking back on it, it wasn't their form or fantastic singing that made their visit so memorable. It was the meaning behind them. Exclaiming that "he's a fixer" had a new meaning when sung by women who had much harder lives than I have ever known. When their chaplain stood up and spoke, I was sold. "I want to talk to you today about murder and theft," she started. "You might thinking I'm talking about the women behind me. But I'm talking about Moses. I'm talking about David..." And so began a revolutionary sermon.

For the Bible Tells Me So
This film is amazing. Period. It follows five families as they deal with homosexuality and Christianity. What I really appreciated about this film was its accessibility and its reality. It presents the issues in a way that isn't mocking, but it simple enough to understand. It also faces the reality that things don't always work out the way we'd like, and that redemption is possible even when we think we've failed the most. Find it in your city, and see it.

Chaplaincy at a Children's Hospital.
I met a little boy who in the span of 2 hours broke through to me, and for the first time, I felt like a chaplain. Amen.

Reformation Day-
Growing up, we never really celebrated Martin Luther and the reformation. But, as it turns out, we have a lot to be thankful for on that front. So, happy belated Reformation Day!

Homecoming at Elon
I went to my first homecoming at Elon two weekend's ago. It was good to be back and see old friends. Even more importantly, it provided a closure that just didn't happen at graduation. Before I went back I felt like I was half Elon student, half Emory student. After visiting Elon again, I'm able to put that experience to rest, and can now more fully move on to Seminary. My Emory friends were at a Halloween party that weekend. When I saw the pictures from the party I noticed two things (1) I was missing and (2) because I realized that, I realized I had a family here too.

All Saints Day
This feast day is a little more high church than what I grew up in. Its the annual day to remember the saints who have gone before us and the ones who are still in our midst. Bishop in Residence Woodie White delivered a powerful sermon. Afterward, we wept together for those we miss and thanked God for their influence on our life. It was a service of remembering. We remembered those who had gone before, but we also re-membered them by inviting them back into our midst.

A New Week

2007-10-09T06:46:00.000-05:00

It's a new week at Candler, and with it comes a new week of classes. But with the classes come new conversations, new prayers, new worship experiences, and new grace.

two things.

(+) believe the story
(+) love the people

How Can I Keep From Singing?

2007-10-07T19:28:00.000-05:00

I had a viking week this week. I've used the term before, but for those who need a refresher, look here.

After an Old Testament test that wasn't too bad, and a Hebrew test that was, I was settling into the last few days fo class before the weekend. Friday, I went to my single class for the day--Hebrew. Now, our professor has a policy of weekly vocabulary quizes. You never know if it's going to be on a Wednesday or a Friday, but you know you're going to have one.

I walked into class Friday to find......................you guessed it........................a vocab quiz on our next chapter.

Silly me, thinking that a TEST during the previous class that week might just trump a taunting and arrogant little vocab quiz. BUT, clearly I was wrong.

All I could do was think about what a jerk move that was. I was pissed. I sat through the rest of class turned off, and debated going home right afterward. But, I reminded myself how much I loved worship, and how it would be good to go that day.

I walked out of class and into chapel, sitting alone near the exit. I didn't want to talk with anyone.

The service began. The Friday service is always mid-day Eucharist. We gather before we embark on our weekend (which for many seminarians is really a time for work), and break bread together once more.

Half way through the service, I was still growling like a viking. In fact, I left the service still pissed.

So I called my mom.

Later that day, as I was finally calming down, I thought back to the service. I thought back to how I wished that it had calmed me, how I wished that it had been the mellowing agent I was in desperate need of earlier that day. I wanted to be able to walk into that service and feel at peace. Isn't that what seminarians are supposed to do? But it didn't work out that way.

Then I remembered the closing hymn--"How Can I Keep from Singing?" It's one of my favorites. The song lilts about, explaining the worst of the worst emotions, then exclaiming the hope we have in God through Christ.

Then it asks a simple question: How can I keep from singing?

And I realized, that was it. How could I keep from singing? God walks with us during all of our moments--from the happy ones to the ones of despair. And, yes, even in the times of anger. When I wanted to throw in the towel (or, more specifically, soak it in pudding and throw it at my professor's head), God stuck with me. He let me be mad. Let me calm down, then sent a reminder saying "hey, it's gonna be alright. And don't pull shit like that. Thanks."

I've got that love, that patience and that hope?

How can I keep from singing?

blessings.
jon.

Story Water

2007-09-26T17:17:00.001-05:00

A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.

It takes messages between the fire
and your skin. it lets them meet,
and it cleans you!

Very few can sit down
in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham.
We need intermediaries.

A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread
to bring it.

Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking
in a garden to know it.

The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal
the light that's blazing
inside your presence.

Water, stories, the body,
all the things we do, are mediums
that hide and show what's hidden.

Study them,
and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not.

rumi, trans. Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi

worship or sin speech?

2007-09-23T16:59:00.000-05:00

I love Candler. I love the people, and the learning, and the praying. But most of all, I love the worship. I love that it has become part of my daily routine...class, worship, reading, work. It gives me a rythmn for my day, a reminder of why I'm here, and what I'm here to do.

Thursday, however, provided a different worship experience.

The Candler Evangelical Society was leading the service. I don't really know that much about CES. The only real interaction I've had with them was through their t-shirts. The shirts are brown with the UPS logo on the front, except it reads CES. On the back, it asks "Have you been delivered."

No, really. I know.

Personally, I have some major concerns with language like that, and the theology that grows from it. But, I realize that we each have different means for understanding God and Christ and how God and Christ interact in our lives. So, I let it go.

But the service they led on Thursday is becoming increasingly more difficult to let go.

I feel that I am pretty open minded to various forms of worship. I realize and honor the different ways that people access and praise God. That was not the issue here.

I think what concerned me the most was the fact that it filled every cliche' possible. We sang songs about our thirst for God, our hunger for the Divine. A little summer camp-y, but good, and a nice change of pace. Then we got to the text for the day--Romans 12. Just in case you need a reminder:

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters,by the
mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and
acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to
this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may
discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.

I couldn't believe it. Perhaps this is more of a UCC thing than anything else, but I have a really hard time with scripture like this, mostly because these are verses that plant the seeds of Christian hate speech. Taken by themselves, they seem relatively harmless, but with the right lens, suddenly we are swimming in the world of sin that surrounds us.

And that was exactly what the sermon was about--sin. In fact, at one point, the student preaching asked the gathered people if we had sinned last night, this past week. He refered to the blood of sacrifices in the "old days, " and how Paul doesn't want our literal blood, but our spiritual selves on the altar. Then, he broke cardinal preaching rule #1--Don't preach at, preach with. He began to tell us how during highschool, he hadn't conformed. He didn't drink or smoke or do drugs or have sex. He had one best friend; he didn't hang out with buddies.

Anyone have a snorkel, because just like that, we were swimming in the sea of sin, our own. "We're called to higher lives," he said. "Don't conform." I had to wonder if the words and theology his was preaching counted as conforming--conforming to language which gives people permission to judge, to hate, and to hurt.

I'm still not sure what to do with it.

blessings.
jon.

what i know...

2007-09-19T20:31:00.001-05:00

Last spring, I took a class called Life Stories. The point of the class was to explore our lives up to that point, and look toward the future with anticipating eyes. At the end of the class, we had to take a favorite quotation, and explain what it meant to each of us in the context of our "life story." A classmate used this quotation: "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."

Today, during my ConEd site meeting, we had to read our reflection papers which we had written about our first visits. In mine, I expressed some worry that I didn't have enough training to do what I was being asked to do. I walk into hospital rooms, and introduce myself as a chaplain.

I have been in seminary for, count them--one..two--weeks.

Who am I to be anyone's chaplain.

With that being said, my supervisor made a good point. "You keep talking about the knowledge you think you lack....what do you know?"

I know how to love people. And how to relate to them. I know how to be scared of the unknown, like so many who find themselves in hospitals. I know how to pray. And how to sing. And how to find hope in the hopeless.

I know that God's will doesn't involve suffering--that sometimes bad things happen to good people. And that it sucks when that happens. I know I can't explain it all. I know I don't have to.

I know how to laugh. And how to help others laugh.

Maybe I'll start there.

blessings.
jon.

A Letter from Aunt Kathryn

2007-09-18T06:35:00.000-05:00

This letter was written to me for the occasion of my baptism (in Baptist sense) or of my confirmation (in the Methodist faith I grew up in). It was written on the day I was born, and held until I was confirmed, at which time I was given the letter. I recently found it again, and somehow, it speaks more to me each and everyday day. Aunt Kathryn taught at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville (before it went crazy), and had a Ed.D. in Christian Education.

March 21, 1985

Dear Jonathan,

This letter is written on the day you were born. This is very nearly the happiest day of our lives in the Chapman family. We loved you even before you were born and now that you are present with us that love grows with each passing day. You are blessed with a wonderful Christian heritage and in the forthcoming years of your life you will hear all about that heritage. You will hear about George Colon Steed, "Mr. Georgia Baptist" who preached for years at Crawfordville Baptist Church and you will hear about Helen Steed Chapman, your grandmother and others who have been outstanding baptists. God has blessed us richly!

All of your life you have been moving to a time when you would make a commitment to Jesus Christ. Loving parents, a church family where you belong and all the friends who surround you have been praying that you would someday give your heart to Jesus. That day has come and I rejoice with you and with your parents. The future is bright as you continue to study your bible and pray that God will reveal to you what His plan is for your life. If you are faithful to God in the way you live your life it will be an abundant life that is filled with joy and peace. Today is a good beginning. My prayer is that God will bless you mightily and that you will come to know what it is like to seek the face of God.

God bless you, Jonathan, all the days of your life. you are a beloved son, a treasured grandson, and a nephew in whom I delight. You are loved!

With gratitude to God,
Aunt Kathryn

You are Mine.

2007-09-12T07:27:00.000-05:00

Wonderful chapel service yesterday. Here was one of my favorite songs:

I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear
You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice
Be still, and know I am near

I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see
In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light
Come and rest in Me

Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

I am strength for all the despairing
Healing for the ones who dwell in shame
All the blind will see, the lame will all run free
And all will know My name

Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

I am the Word that leads all to freedom
I am the peace the world cannot give
I will call your name, embracing all your pain
Stand up, now, walk, and live

Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

like a child

2007-09-10T20:32:00.001-05:00

Today was my second visit to my Contextual Education (ConEd) site placement. I had visited Scottish Rite Children's hospital the Thursday before, but today was the day I was to start visiting patients.

My first duty was to watch three short films on child abuse, development and the hospital.

Then, after searching the hospital and finding my employee badge (which grants me access, etc), I met with my resident and made my way to my floor.

When I first learned that I would be at Scottish Rite, my heart sank. I didn't want to work with kids. The only real experience I had was with my baby (now 8 year old) cousin, O. And even then, she was family--it was different.

I didn't want my heart to be broken. When I told a friend this, she asked "why?" It seemed like a dumb question at first, but I thought about it, and answered her with this "Cancer is a horrible thing. But I can swallow it a little easier if someone has been smoking for fifty years than if they were five years old." I guess I'm afraid of the unexplained. More specifically of the undeserved (not that anyone deserves to suffer or be in pain).

Today, I visited with two families. My visits were brief (I was on a tight schedule today), but they went better than I had anticipated. The big question still looms--what are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do? But at the end of the day, all you can do is be there and sit with them and chat and hope and pray.

And above all, remember that at our core, in our most central being, we are all like children--hopeful, scared, and all searching for a little fun along the way.

blessings.
jon.

redemption at stone mountain

2007-09-09T16:53:00.000-05:00

Some seminary friends and I went to Stone Mountain on Saturday. Initially, we were going to drive up to Amicalola Falls north of Atlanta to hike around some, but we decided that while we were anxious to get out of the city into God's Country (nature, that is), we weren't anxious enough to get up at 830 am.

So, we opted for the far closer (but busier) Stone Mountain Park. When we arrived, we were greeted by a flood of vehicles, more than any of us thought would've been there. And, of course, there was a reason. The Yellow Daisy Festival was in town, and the park was brimming with visitors.

Anxious to avoid the crowds, we bypassed the festival parking, and stashed our car at the bottom of the walk-up trail.

As we made our way up the mountain, I was thinking about what Stone Mountain meant. For years it was meeting grounds for the KKK. In fact, in 1915, the KKK was resurrected on top of the mountain. I thought about the carving on the north face--three confederate leaders on their mounts. And I thought about how divisive the monument could be. It would certainly be easy to see it only as a memorial to the fallen South's most notrious attribute--slavery.

But I had to believe that it could mean more.

As we walked up the mountian, small children were running up its slope--excited to be on an adventure, intently and carelessly looking at every detail. The yellow daisies were in bloom, and the sun was out. And it became clear to me that things aren't always what they once were, that before it was a memorial, it was a mountain. And as such, it was a memorial to exactly that which redeems it (and us) and makes it new.

I was joking with my friends that I should've brought a Bible to re-enact the Sermon on the Mount on top of Stone Mountain. Later, I told another friend about that converstaion, and she expressed some concern that it might be offensive to do that.

I'm not sure how that works out. The Gospel is for everything, it finds redemption and renewel and grace in everything. It takes things that are offensive and hurtful, and transforms them into new and good things. And it's because of its past that it becomes the perfect place to read the Gospel, because in the end the Gospel is for the wretched.

During his "I Have a Dream" speach, MLK, Jr. exclaimed "let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georiga." Perhaps the way to let that happen, is for all of us to recognize the mountain's embarassing history, but then to look with new and fresh eyes toward a future of unity.

dirty becomes clean.
bad becomes good.
hate becomes love.

blessings.
jon.

Getting Oriented

2007-09-01T10:50:00.000-05:00

I just finished up two days of Seminary orientation.

And I have to say I'm getting excited about starting. But that's not because of orientation. Well, not directly, at least.

I'm getting excited because I'm meeting people. Crazy people. Fun People. Out there people. And right in line people. And it feels good, and right.

Our first day of orientation involved dressing up for our contextual education (or ConEd) site placements. I have been placed as a Chaplain at Scottish Rite Children's Hospital. We met in our groups, after a dreadfully boring morning (even though they tried hard), and prepared to visit our sites.

Soon, people were piling into vans. Not us. Nope. We didn't get to go. I can't say that I can be particularly angry about this. I totally understand why. Not all of us had been cleared by employee health (we had to do TB tests, screenings, etc). And, to make sure we didn't put anyone in danger--particularly a "vulnerable population"--we became oriented at Candler.

I was a little disappointed. At first, I have to admit, I felt a little self-righteous. I had gotten my stuff together. I went and did the tests, and peed into the cups, and gotten stuck by needles, and filled out more forms. Why should I be held back?

But, as my friend E. says, be generous. And she's right. We ended up having a good conversation, getting to know each other, learning more about our placement, and going over some important stuff. So all was not lost.

The first day was followed by a shorter, but information-packed day. We took a library tour, heard from everyone under the sun, and had worship to end the day.

I really liked that. So often, worship is a routine thing (in the ordinary sense), but at seminary it becomes so much more than that. Starting a morning off with morning prayer focuses the mind on the day ahead, and the reason for the day ahead. Ending the work day with worship brings us back to square one. It was nice.

All of these past night have been spent meeting new people, hanging out, and wondering just what is ahead.

None of us know that answer yet.

But come Tuesday, when classes finally start, we might find the answer. Or, more likely, fall deeper into that question.

Happy Labor Day Weekend,

blessings.
jon.

The Last Farewell

2007-08-28T17:34:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about Elon today, and what I've left and what I've started.

With those thoughts on my mind, I stumbled across this column I wrote during my freshman year of college. It's a little long, but now that the time which I wrote about has passed, and is passing, it seemed appropriate to visit it again.

The Last Farewell

“Fare thee well/ My own true love/ Farewell for a while/ I’m going away But I’ll be back/ Though I go 10,000 miles”
-Mary Chapin Carpenter, 10,000 Miles

I hate goodbyes. Leaving home this past August and moving to college signaled a great change in my life. I went from a total semi-parasitic dependent to a somewhat independent young adult. And in the process of gaining this great title of young adult, I lost the certainty of my past. I no longer have the safety net of home, at least not how it used to be.

When I went home for fall break I was shocked. My Waffle House, the one I had spent countless hours sitting and chatting in, the one I read in, the one I would eat pecan pie in at 1 in the morning, was nothing but a pile of old crumbled ruble. That place was like my comfort zone.

Upon arriving at college, many of my new friends had never heard of Waffle house. If they had, they hadn’t eaten there. They would ask me “don’t they only serve breakfast there” or “isn’t it closed” when I would ask if they would accompany me at 1:30 am to the nearest yellow and brown house. “Ignorance can be cured, stupidity is forever.” The immortal words of my father echoed in my head. All they needed was to be introduced to the Waffle House experience.

In my high school days, Waffle House, or Wa Ho as we called it was just another part of growing up—like nightly homework or daily practice. There were three waffle houses within a mile of my school—all three on the same road, Virginia Avenue

I suppose that some of my readers don’t understand my connection with this place; I guess that can have the best guess at how I feel about this restaurant are my fellow Atlantans. This is where I came upon the “great teenage revelations.” It was here that one of my best friends brought her fiancé the night before the wedding to hang out. It was here that I said many goodbyes.

And where did all those memories go? Sure I have a menu from the eatery that a waitress gave me once, and I can order my hash browns the same way at any Waffle House, but will it be the same? No, it never will.

That’s what makes me the saddest about leaving home. It’s not so much missing my family and friends as it is missing me. Missing the way I and life used to be. I may be able to fly back to Atlanta, but I won’t get to light the Jack-o-lanterns each night or help to decorate the house for Valentine’s Day or even do something as simple as feed the dogs.

This past May, I gave a speech to my church. One of my goals was to figure out exactly how to bid the congregation and this place I had grown up in goodbye. I tried. I couldn’t.

Instead I thought of an old family friend, whom, when one left a visit, would not allow you to say goodbye. You would have to say “I love you.” That’s what I told my church. But I can’t do that with my past. I can go back to that church. I can’t live in my past. I feel almost like I have lost a home.

And that is why I am dreading my last farewell in May of 2007. I don’t want to loose this home too. I’ll say it. I’m scared. And any person who claims they aren’t just a tiny bit worried is lying—even those graduating in may this year.

I’m sure it’s completely natural to have these fears. But it’s more than just fear. It’s disappointment as well. There is so much hype that leads up to a graduation. You wait excitedly for the appointed day. Finally, it arrives, and you walk up that stage, grab your paper that makes you king of the world for 2.3 seconds, then its over. You just spent so much of your life working towards that sheet of paper and in under three seconds, it is finished. All the reading, writing, studying, worrying, and sleepless nights were for one sheet of paper and three seconds.

Granted this piece of paper hold the key to success further down the road, there is some sort of let down that is involved.

When I received my high school diploma, it was the end of an era for me. I had attended this particular school for fourteen out of my eighteen years. As I reached my hand out for that single certificate I shut a door on the life I had known for over a decade. I put the final stamp on my career as a highschooler and it was the beginning of having to move on with my life.
My Scoutmaster, with whom I worked closely during past summers at a summer camp and who graduated from the same school, probably put it the best. He said that “when you leave, its like having a door slam shut behind you. You can’t go back.” That is so hard to hear sometimes. What if I want to go back? I can’t just hit the back button on my internet web browser or retype the address into the address bar.

I do miss high school. I miss having friends that I saw daily, but could easily get away from by retreating home. I miss my mother’s hugs and my dad’s jokes.

But now I am at college and meeting fantastic, loving, fascinating people. The bottom line is that I am having the time of my life. But deep within me, I know its all going to end…again. I will have a new family and then I will be forced to say goodbye one more time.

Friends remind me that I have four years (well, a little over three now). That is just it, I have four years. I only have four years to make friends, to live college, to have fun before I have to grow up for good.

It’s a harsh reality. One that is not fun in the making. You might say that life is full of goodbyes, that there never really is a last farewell. Fine. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to look forward to them.
To all those who are counting down the days until you bid Elon farewell, just remember my old friend--the one who wouldn’t let you say good bye, only “I love you.”

Goodbye Elon, Hello Emory

2007-08-28T11:11:00.001-05:00

Classes started today at Elon. It's the first time in 4 years that I'm not there for that. I didn't move to a new place. I didn't go and buy books, or print off my schedule or visit my favorite people on campus.

Instead I got my hair cut.

I know that moving on is necessary. And, I was quite ready to be done with the work and some of the drama that invade my last two months there.

But, I know I'm gonna miss it. It was home. And, I definitely left a piece of me there.

Yesterday, I ventured onto Emory's campus to run some errands. I bought books, visited some fun folks, filled out more forms, and got my ID made.

I bummed around with two friends (one new, one old). Later that evening, a group of us first-years made our way to Decatur and Virginia-Highlands. Good company. Good moments.

And it really began to sink in that I was starting the next chapter.

And I'm glad for that.

And that is a good place to be.

water.raining.grace

2007-08-27T17:42:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, the church I was visiting welcomed new members.

Most of the time, these little ceremonettes are rather dry. A few questions, a few answers, blah blah blah, and wham bam, another member of a church.

But this time around, I was reminded of why I love the church I am part of, and why I’m going into what I am going into.

One of the new members hadn’t been baptized before. He came up first and knelt before the pastor. She dipped her fingers in the blessed water, and laid them on his head.

“I baptize you in the name of God, who has created and is creating.”

She wet her fingers again.

“I baptize you in the name of Christ, you has redeemed you.”

A third time, she dipped in the font.

“I baptize you in the name of the Holy Spirit, who is alive and at work in your life, and who will continue to be with you always.”

I sighed a sigh of relief. Maybe because it reminded me that I had those promises too. That God is still speaking, hardly dormant. That Christ has taken care of that which had to have been paid. That even in the loneliest hour, we aren’t alone.

And I had to wonder, what are we afraid of? What do we think we have to protect God from? Why are we scared?

It’s been raining a lot in Atlanta recently. After a month of record-breaking temperatures, its nice to find relief in the waters from the sky. The rain often comes with afternoon thunderstorms.

I believe in God. Thunderstorms remind me why.

Majesty. Power. And grace like rain that brings relief when we need it most.

blessings, be well.

jon.

meeting Gretchen again

2007-08-27T17:41:00.002-05:00

I am officially excited for seminary. It happened today. When I was able to see my friend, Gretchen, again.

I have two friends named Gretchen. The first I met in Denmark. She and I were kindred spirits--both searching for something more than a semester abroad, both afraid of what we could find, both glad that we found each other. She lives on the West Coast, I on the East. But somehow, our spirits seems to commune despite the distance.

My second Gretchen is from Wisconsin. So, she lives way too far North, and too far away. We met at the Fund for Theological Education’s summer conference, and hit it off. Not only are we both going to Candler, BUT (and that but should be capitalized, because this is BIG) BUT, we are both UCC. Which is fantastic, as far as I’m concerned, because I love my UCCers particularly in a place that isn’t terribly UCC.

Anyway, yesterday, I took a hankering to give her a call, and see what she was up to, and lo, she was in Atlanta. She had just arrived. Being exhausted from a two day trek across the States, she opted for sleep (loser). But today, we got to have lunch (with her mom, who is soooooooooooo much fun and paid for lunch--who could ask for more?). And shop. At Ikea.

I know all of that seems pointless to write or think about. But really, it isn’t. These are the people that crossed my path and remind me why I am doing what I am doing. These are the people that make me excited and lift me up and push me onward and pray and love and celebrate.

And I’m glad I’m getting to share it with them.

Sometimes, its good to remember that.

blessings.
jon.

the united church of christ

2007-08-27T17:41:00.001-05:00

More and more, it seems that I am getting the question “What is the United Church of Christ?” Most of the time, I simply respond, “Probably the most progressive mainline protestant denomination out there.” But that really doesn’t say much. And often, people associate progressive with liberal, and make a whole lot of assumptions which really lead to no where productive.

Recently, the UCC released their recently redesigned website. As part of it, they created a wonderful page which asks congregations to examine how they fit into what matters to the UCC.

Here is the site, but I’ll give you the quick and dirty if you’re reading on the run.

(1) We Are People of God’s Extravagant Welcome
In recent marketing campaigns, the UCC
adopted the slogan, “Jesus didn’t turn people
away. Neither do we.” God’s arms are open
to us all, and the UCC strives to be direct
about such a revolutionary welcome and grace.

(2) We Belong to Christ
From the site (b/c I couldn’t think of a way to say it better):
"We belong to Christ" is a loaded phrase. It's loaded
because it means different things to different people.
It packs within it comfort for some; challenge for
others; and for many both comfort and challenge. For
some, the words unite; for others the words divide. In
the United Church of Christ, we pray the words comfort, challenge, and unite.

(3) We Are a People of Covenant, a United and Uniting Church
The church historically is steeped in the idea of
Covenant, promises that are defined on levels
beyond human loyalty. In that covenant is the promise
of God’s love and grace, which has brought us together
and continues to do so.

(4) We Are One at Baptism and at the Table
Again, from the site: Just some water, just a simple meal of
bread and juice, but for us in the United Church Christ, what
is simple means much more. We celebrate two sacraments.
One is Baptism. The other is Holy Communion which is also
often called the Lord's Supper or Eucharist. Sacraments are
our ritual acts in worship life when the Holy Spirit uses water, bread, and wine to make visible the grace, forgiveness, and presence of God in Christ.

(5) We Thank God by Working for a Just and Loving World
We are called by God to do whatever we can
to be stewards of God’s Creation. Certainly this includes
environmental concerns, but it goes far beyond that.
It means working for justice for the disenfranchised,
loving the unloved, and realized that anything we
interact with is part of God’s creation.

(6) We Listen for the Still-speaking God
God isn’t dormant. The Bible isn’t the end of
God’s voice speaking to us. Part of an active
spiritual life is action and silence, finding the
space for God to speak, and the will to listen.

friends

2007-08-27T17:40:00.000-05:00

The past days have been filled with friends, old ones and new ones.

It’s really been a comfort. After two weeks of focusing on the condo, I was drained and pretty lonely. Being a pretty extraverted person, I thrive on the energies that others bring into my space. Not having that regularly was at first resting. But now, and I bet my parents would never believe this (wait, maybe they could), I’m just plain bored.

I did meet up with some old friends and my mom came by a few times, but those sporadic moments of interaction weren’t quite enough to

Thursday changed that. Two of FTE friends came over for dinner. It was my first dinner gig at my new place, and was easily one of the highlights of my summer. We joked, laughed, ate freshly baked cookies, and drank. (Relax, Milk with the cookies, duh. right.).

The next night I met more new folks (that went sort of well), but Saturday took the cake. Mom and Dad came over to help be do a few bigger-than-I-could-handle fix-it chores, then I had dinner with my a close and dear friend (at Waffle House, which, as always, really hit the spot). Then I headed over to Decatur.

After getting lost to the point that I had to talk to two people to find my way there (Who knew decatur could be so confusing?) I found just where I was supposed to be. I joined some Columbia kids (the PCUSA seminary in ATL) at a bar which had a great folksy/blues band playing. And we sat and talked and laughed. And it was great.

So here’s to the weekend of old friends and to new ones.

The more I sit with my decision to move to ATL instead of NYC, the more it feels right.

blessings.
jon.

watching paint dry

2007-08-27T17:39:00.002-05:00

Mom came over today and helped me to finish the last bit of painting. A week ago yesterday, we were painting away in the master bedroom, but after a long day of cleaning and painting we didn’t quite get the closet finished.

[Insert bad gay jokes here.]

So today, we spend the morning in the closet, painting the walls, avoiding painting the floors (again), and waiting for the paint to dry.

And it’s thrilling.

I guess I’m just ready to be done moving. I’m ready to be still enough to let these roots sink into the ground. At least for a while.

But with every change comes having to watch the paint dry. Those moments of unsure transition when you’re not sure what to do except the obvious.

Better get back to it.

blessings.
jon.

things you'll never hear a redneck say

2007-08-27T17:39:00.001-05:00

#9--Checkmate

Welcome Home

2007-08-27T17:38:00.000-05:00

Well, it’s official. I am a homeowner.

I also am in way more debt than I ever wanted to be.
But, c’est la vie.

We closed on Monday, painted and cleaned Tuesday, and moved wednesday. And I have to say, I am totally exhausted.

Yesterday, after my folks had left, my friend Mariah came over and helped me unpack. It was good to have a new good friend help create a new good home.

As I left the house I grew up in, I have to admit that my eyes got a little teary.

It hit me, as I pulled out the driveway, that I was leaving for the last time. Sure, I’ll go back, but it won’t ever be the same. My home, now, is in Atlanta. And my parent’s home is in Fairburn.

And I’m sad for that. And I’m glad for that.

And I’m excited and scared and joyful and grateful and hopeful. Above all I’m hopeful.

And that is a good place to be.

Welcome home.

blessings.
jon.

I Know Where I Been

2007-08-27T17:37:00.002-05:00

I saw Hairspray the other day. I have to admit it was fun. Really fun. Fun to the point that I went and bought the soundtrack for my good friend Katie. Of course, she did the same for me (we saw the film together), so we have been singing our brains out for the past week. And we have had so much fun doing it.

From the first Oh-oh-ohs to the final dance moves, it is a thrilling ride through ever 1962 cliche.

Almost all of the songs are fantastically entertaining and downright show-song bliss. One song, however, is tremendous in another way.

The movie, which has a major theme of integration woven throughout comes to a halt as Queen Latifah begins to sing the beautiful “I know where I’ve been..” To read the lyrics, click here (and trust me, you should---IN FACT, buy the song on itunes).

In the song, she talks about the progress the civil rights movement is just beginning to make, but reminds the listener not to forget to where we’ve been.

This song makes me cry. Every time. The movements that I am involved with parallel the sentiments which are sung about in the song to the point that I can’t help but feel that I could just as easily be singing those words.

The thing is, it’s not the lyrics about the struggle that get me. I have seen that, lived it in some way.

Instead, it is the very end in which they exclaim “to sit still will be a sin.” I couldn’t agree more. When do we stop sitting still, and start creating change? When do we say enough? And when do we stop accepting the “I didn’t realize” as an excuse?

And finally, the song ends in a joyful praise:

Oh! When we win,
I'll give thanks to my God
'Cause i know where I've been

How could you say it better? When it’s over and we have changed for the better, we give thanks to God--not just for bringing us to this point, but for helping us know where we’ve been.

blessings.
jon.

remembering grace at the waffle house

2007-08-27T17:37:00.001-05:00

Yesterday evening I went to Waffle House. I used to go pretty regularly as it’s a way of life down here. I remember moving to Elon, and trying to get my new friends into the Waffle House experience.

“But I’m not hungry,” they would whine.

“We’re not going to eat,” I’d nearly shout back

Eating isn’t the point (however, it is a nice added bonus).

The point is going, and being. There were three Waffle Houses within a mile of my high school--each with its own group of kids that went there often. I went to the one closest to my church so much during my high school days, that they gave me a menu when I left for college.

When it was all said and done, Waffle House was always there--open, with good food and usually good friends.

Last night, I was meeting my friend, Kellie, at the Waffle House up by the highway. Assuming I would be the first one there (we went to the one far closer to me than to her), I brought a book with me.

The book was Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. The book, which I read once before for a class during my junior year of college, is about Dr. Paul Farmer’s quest to solve the health problems of Haiti. The title comes from a Haitian proverb: “Beyond mountains there are mountains.”

You can imagine how the book goes. I was somewhere in the third chapter where Kidder writes about the policies of Farmer’s rural healthcare center. The one rule that was distinctly Farmer’s and the one which couldn’t be broken, was that no one was turned away. They would help every last patient.

And I realized that is our call--to not turn people away. And in that is the Grace we are given, that we won’t be turned away.

As as Charlie Daniels sawed on that fiddle, playing it hot over the jukebox, I knew that I was glad to be at Waffle House--at a place where the door was open, and smiles waited inside. And I was glad to be reminded of God’s grace--where the arms are open, and love awaits us all.

blessings.

jon.

a prayer

2007-08-27T17:36:00.000-05:00

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will follow you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

written by Thomas Merton
"Thoughts in Solitude"

Jon, The Viking

2007-08-27T17:34:00.001-05:00

I had a viking day. And by viking day, I mean bad day.

One of those days when you just don’t know what to write.

So, I turn to Mary Oliver. Somehow, she always has something good and right and true to say.

Wild Geese
From Dream Work
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

blessings.

jon.

Jon, The Viking

2007-08-27T17:34:00.000-05:00

Wild Geese
From Dream Work
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

blessings.

jon.

looking back, looking forward

2007-08-27T17:33:00.000-05:00

The other night, just before I went to sleep, I thought about Paris. I’ve only been to Paris twice, both during the same trip. After leaving Copenhagen, I headed to Paris and crashed on a friend of a friend’s apartment floor. After touring around the south of France for a month or so, I ended up back in Paris.

On the night before my great adventure ended (I had been living abroad for upwards of six months by that point), I sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur or the Church of the Sacred Heart to watch the sunset. I gazed across the city, and thought about what the past six month had been. I remembered meeting my first friends, learning to travel by myself, changing the way I saw the world.

I looked out on all I had been and what I had become.

This past June I had a similar experience.

At the FTE conference on ministry, the last nighttime worship was Taize’ inspired. Through prayers, songs, and silence we all came to a common space. There were different stations set up all around the chapel. Toward the back, chairs were set up in a curve facing a stair case up to the balcony. Entering the space, I walked by the Holy Water. Crossing myself with it, I made my way to the first banner. It was Isaiah six: Then I heard the voice of the LORD saying “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here I am; send me!”

I went to the next banner at the bottom of the steps. There a fishnet was loosely hanging over six or seven versions of Christ’s call for us to be fishers of men.

I ascended the steps and at the landing, there were a set of minister’s robes. I turned around, and laid out beneath me was the whole chapel--candles, people suspended in song and prayer, and hope.

And I realized I was looking out on my future--on what my life might be, and I was happy and stunned and excited and terrified. All at once.

Then I realized, its what I need to do. And I’m glad to do it.

The Lord asked “Whom shall I send?”

Send me.

home.

2007-08-27T17:32:00.000-05:00

For the past month and a half, I have been living at home. with my parents. You might think “oh, that’s not so bad.” And I’d have to agree with you. No rent. No buying food. No paying for utilities. It’s nice.

But two months (the amount of time I will have been here by the time I move out) is proving to be longer than I thought.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy being at home. I love my folks. I get to sleep late (at least right now), take naps and do what I please. And of course, there is nothing more comfortable (at least for me) than home. Driving down our road, which has a Baptist church sign at its end with a different message every week (this week’s was “Exercise! Walk with God!”--no lie) is the epitome of the “home stretch.” I remember coming home from Elon, and seeing that sign, and thinking “whew...i finally made it.” Then I would turn down our drive way and see our house, and I knew I was there--and in that knowledge was a safety and hope that somehow is always found at home.

So what’s the problem? The problem lies in the fact that I haven’t lived at home for four years. When I did come home, the longest stay I had was three weeks. Three weeks to two months is a pretty big jump.

The problem isn’t in my parents or the house or the pets or my old room. The problem lies in the fact that this is a period of huge transition for me. I’m leaving behind what I’ve known, and stepping off on a journey which hasn’t all come to light yet. I’m not sure where the path might lead, but I’m going to tread it faithfully and hopeful.

Since moving home, I’ve known that this adventure is just beyond my doorstep. And I am excited to begin it. So now, home feels like it is doing the one thing home shouldn’t do--hold you back. It’s not intentional or malicious, just reality. Since the fall of 2005, my life has been on a train going full speed ahead. Experience after experience has shaped me and molded me in such phenomenal and miniscule ways. That train has finally paused on the tracks, refilling on water, changing passengers and upgrading engineers.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to pull into a station. But, as I think about it, I’m glad for the rest.

At Elon’s most recent graduation, University Chaplain Richard McBride presented us with part of a prayer from Michel Quoist’s book Prayers. This particular prayer was based on the book of Ephesians, and begins like this:

I would like to rise very high, Lord;
Above my city,
Above my world,
Above time.
I would like to purify my glance and borrow your eyes.

That is my prayer--Let me see this time with God’s eyes.

blessings.
jon.

love > fear

2007-08-27T17:31:00.000-05:00

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.

nice.

blessings.
jon.

Walking the Line...

2007-08-27T17:30:00.000-05:00

Recently, a friend of mine was telling me about a Christian Financial Advisor who had a radio show. This took me by surprise. Not because he could get a show (I mean, really--radio seems to always be looking for the next big thing), but because he considered himself a Christian Financial adviser.

Not knowing much about the host (and not wanting to assume too much) I asked my friend what was the gist of how this person advised. My initial thought was “WWJA?”--what would Jesus advise?

The first thing I thought of Jesus’ answer to rich man who asked “How do I get to Heaven?” Jesus said, without missing a beat, “Give it all away.” Then my mind jumped to the turning over of tables in the temple--one of the few times when we really see Jesus get mad.

Here is the scripture, for those who want a refresher (God knows I always need one!):

Then someone came to him and said, ‘Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?’ And he said to him, ‘Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good. If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments.’ He said to him, ‘Which ones?’ And Jesus said, ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; Honor your father and mother; also, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ The young man said to him, ‘I have kept all these;* what do I still lack?’ Jesus said to him, ‘If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money* to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’ When the young man heard this word, he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
Matthew 19.16-22

In true Christ fashion, there is always a lesson from such interactions:

Then Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Truly I tell you, it will be hard for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.’
Matthew 19. 23-26

hmmm.

So from these two instances alone we begin to get a sense of how Jesus felt about money. And even a surface level reading leaves us uncomfortable with a “well, shit” feeling somewhere deep inside us.

So, I wonder what our advisor’s policy is? Is he attempting to make money for people and nothing else? Is he advising folks on how to be investment savvy while reminding them to use the money for good causes or for others? Or is he telling them to give it all way?

Where is the line between literally following what Christ said and interpretation? What are we supposed to make of it?

Of course what is ironic about the second part of Matthew that is presented above is that it seems that this is a statement by Christ that is so often demanded to be understood in a non-literal way by folks who insist that the Bible is literal. Gay people are immoral, but it’s OK for me to keep all the money I make preaching that message.

Oftentimes, when the topic turns to money, I tell my conservative friends that Jesus said to give it all away. They scoff, often feeling victimized, the explain that they are trying to live a good life. Then, they tell me to stop telling them what Jesus said.

And here’s the thing..I understand where they are coming from. I have certainly enjoyed driving my Jetta, receiving a college education, eating what I want when I want it. I am in the same boat. I like to think I could give it all away, but would I? Maybe, maybe not.

And should I have to give it all up? Is it OK to have savings or is that the ultimate sign of atheism--not trusting that God will provide when God explicitly says God will (remember the birds and the lilies)? Or am I simply saving what God already provided?

Should we stop reminding each of what Jesus said? I don’t mean in a judging way, just in a don’t forget sort of way...I mean, if we are going to Christians, we should claim it...right? So what does it mean to claim it?

These are strong words that make hard questions.

And the questions don’t end with these. I have so many more (not the least of which is how far should Christianity infiltrate your life?) But perhaps we’ll tackle those another day.

Just to keep you from thinking I’m too heavy, here is a fun story from just this morning. My dad has a penchant for Toostie Rolls. Coming home from lunch today (where he had purchased five rolls or so), he stuck one half-way in his mouth (keep in mind he has a beard) and asks my mom what he is...she didn’t know (neither did I), and he excitedly told us he was Lassie taking a crap.

no lie.

welcome to the family.

blessings.
jon.

Rainstorms and Windchimes

2007-08-27T17:28:00.000-05:00

We had bad storms yesterday evening. I mean bad. Just as my family was heading out for dinner, a lightning storm descended upon us. And by descended, I really mean blew in from the west, over beyond the river.

We were all three sitting outside on our back porch listening to the rain, when the rain brought distant thunder and lightning to our front door. We all scurried inside, thinking it would soon pass.

But we were wrong. Soon we were directly under the storm. Directly under as in hearing three sounds: the rain, the thunder, and the lightning popping fifty feet away.

I’ll be honest. I even found myself getting antsy and telling my mom that I wasn’t too fond of this storm.

We were each doing our own things. Mom had the paper, dad was doing God knows what, and I was finishing up Anne Lamott’s latest book Grace (Eventually) which is pretty good, fyi. Basically, we were trying our best to avoid the tempest just outside our door.

Then, through the midst of the rain and wind and popping and crashing, I heard our wind chimes ringing. They were peaceful and calm, a ringing voice that reminded us that even in the presence of the most turbulent of storms there are moments in which, if we listen carefully and closely enough, we can hear God’s own voice of comfort.

A couple of weeks ago, I rediscovered a favorite writing of mine. I’d like to share it with you now.

It is not you who shape God:
it is God who shapes you.
If then you are the work of God,
await the hand of the Artist
who does all things in due season.
Offer the Potter your heart,
soft and tractable,
and keep the form in which
the Artist has fashioned you.
Let your clay be moist,
lest you grow hard and lose
the imprint of the Potter’s fingers.

-Irenaeus, 2nd Century Theologian

Blessings.

jon.

The Problem with Open Arms

2007-08-27T17:26:00.001-05:00

This past weekend, I was at the Fund for Theological Education’s annual conference on ministry. This conference, which as I mentioned earlier I attended last year, is amazing because it brings all of these fantastic young people together. Folks from every denomination you can think of (at least most of them) were there, and through it all, there was a common understanding that there were places we disagreed, but that when it came down to it, there was a foundational place where we all could agree. In the end, beyond the details and places we differed was the assurance of the story and the love.

During my time at this year’s conference, I found myself in the position to have to explain exactly what the United Church of Christ is. After some surface level history lessons, and an attempt at sharing what the UCC holds as important social justice issues (which for the record, is all of them), I realized that maybe the best way to describe the UCC is by explaining its arms.

Here’s what I mean. When approached by a question or an issue, the UCC debates and discusses and converses about how to respond. As many of our critics have duly noted, we are pretty open toward a whole myriad of possible responses, but the one great litmus test that is consistently applied to these topics is this single question: Is the action we are about to take going to open our arms wider or close them tighter?

If the answer isn’t that it will open our arms wider, then the answer/response simply isn’t good enough. Period. And that is what I love about the UCC, and about Christ (more importantly about Christ). Arms are extended wider, reaching out, pulling in, and saying “we’re gonna love you where you are, not where someone thinks you should be.”

Last year, at this same conference, a minister sitting on a panel for undergraduates recalled one of the most important things that she had learned in Seminary was this: “Two things,” she said. “Believe the story. Love the people.”
“How Simple!” I thought. Right. Not so much.

Why is it, then, that some people are so damn hard to love?

For many its believing the story that is the problem. And, to some extent, I have my doubts about literal interpretations, etc. But its the love part that’s the real kicker. Christ certainly said that loving each other is the greatest thing we can do second to loving God with our whole beings. And somewhere along the way, I’m sure he mentioned that it wouldn’t be easy. But damn.

So how do you love people who (1) are abusive in theology or self (2) refuse to love you or (3) seem to try every trick in the book to separate themselves from you and from God?

I have to believe that God can offer that love. If I don’t, then I’m not sure where the starting place for life is. But is it fair for us to claim to be able to do the same thing? I began to answer that question sometime ago:

We claim unconditional love, but to not recognize our incapability of attaining it would be folly. While humans can muster magnificent and tremendous amounts of love and compassion, we are unable to mimic such devotion. We love, but only to a point. We open our arms with compassion, but find our arms growing tired. God does not falter like humans. God keeps loving; God keeps his compassion flowing. Where humans insert a “but,” God insists on “regardless.” We have God’s love, regardless; we have God’s grace, regardless.

So the problem with open arms, is that as much as we want to hold them wide open--shouting for people to come in to our fold, we can’t. And the really scary part is that our arms are the first to go. Soon, our minds get tired, and then our hearts.

And then, grace like rain reminds us that we are cleansed, refreshed, and made well. And that maybe holding our arms open is worth the weariness and hurt. That people will come around. That is was by God’s love that we came to God, and in the same way, our love that others can come to us.

For some time, I’ve looked to 1st John for my favorite lifting words. So, I leave you with this and a thought.

There is no fear in love,
but perfect love casts out fear...
1 John 4. 18

So what, then are we afraid of?

blessings.
jon.

The Problem with Open Arms

2007-08-27T17:26:00.000-05:00

We claim unconditional love, but to not recognize our incapability of attaining it would be folly. While humans can muster magnificent and tremendous amounts of love and compassion, we are unable to mimic such devotion. We love, but only to a point. We open our arms with compassion, but find our arms growing tired. God does not falter like humans. God keeps loving; God keeps his compassion flowing. Where humans insert a “but,” God insists on “regardless.” We have God’s love, regardless; we have God’s grace, regardless.

There is no fear in love,
but perfect love casts out fear...
1 John 4. 18

So what, then are we afraid of?

blessings.
jon.

The Mountains and the Road

2007-08-27T17:25:00.001-05:00

Today, my mother and I drove up to my old summertime stomping grounds, the north Georgia Mountains. For three summers, I worked in the mountains at a Boy Scout Summer Camps. Those summers are some of my most cherished and missed memories. Even just visiting the area was a bit of a homecoming.

One of the really great things about the state of Georgia is that you get a little bit of everything. There are the lowlands and wetlands, thick with the muddy waters, alligators, and at the moment, smoke. This of course fades into the coastal plain which leads visitors to Georgia’s frozen-in-time islands and cities that ooze Southern Charm (Savannah, anyone?). Further north you’ll find the piedmont. These rolling hills are generally green (excepted the drought-parched terrain that seems to be all you can see at the moment). This area boasts Atlanta, and a myriad of charming towns that remind you of what life used to be like, and make you wonder if it could ever be that way again.

And then you come to my favorite place--the mountains. I’m not exactly sure what fascinates me the most about the mountains. I think my love comes first and foremost from my mother. From my earliest years, we would drive up to the North Carolina mountains on a crisp, fall Friday night. We always had to leave after daddy got off work, so we wouldn’t see the actual mountains. We would only catch glimpses of the mountain shadows against a harvest moon.

The next morning though, was fantastic--vibrant colors, warm sun that made you feel comfortable in your own skin. On the twisted road to the cabin we normally stay at is a private drive called “Hallelujah Acres.” I’d seen it in past years, always leading up to some old homestead. But this year, the meaning was different. The beauty surrounding it finally explained the simple label. The trees, bursting into color shouted “Hallelujah.” But greater still was the meaning that even through the deaths of the leaves will come the buds of spring. Hallelujah.

Isn’t that how we go through life? Driving down the interstate with everyone else, finally finding the exit ramp we had been looking for all along (after many bathroom stops, wrong stops, and u-turns) only to stumble upon moments of grace and illumination--those are the hallelujah acres of our lives.

So we are all on the road, driving toward the beach or the mountains or the lake or relief--God help us find where we are going.

blessings.
jon.

For Such a Time As This

2007-08-27T17:20:00.000-05:00

Today saw me return from The Fund for Theological Education’s annual conference on Excellence in Ministry. I was lucky enough to receive a Congregational Fellowship (which matches dollar for dollar the funding that congregations give for first year seminarians). As part of that fellowship, we are able to attend a conference with nearly two hundred other young people who are either thinking about or are going into seminary and on into Ministry.

What was really amazing about this conference (which I attended last June as well) is that it brings together so many different people and beliefs and reminds us that as the base of who we are, at the core of what we do, it Christ and the church (little c, not big).

The theme is from the book of Esther. Esther has become
queen of Persia, and has the opportunity to save her
people (the Jewish race, in case we were confused), but is
hesitant to do so. Her Uncle, Mordecai, reminds her that
perhaps this was the moment that will define her, the
moment that has been weaving its way to her. The time for
which she was made queen.

The conference suggested to us the same thing--that
perhaps we are all called for such a time as this. In the
midst of a church which is falling apart, in a time in which
hatred about and peace is a all too distant reality. We are
each in Esther’s position. We have inherited wealth and
potential beyond what we need and far beyond what we
deserve. We have able hands. Now we must open our
hearts and make the changes that simply must happen.

The conference also offered multitudes of opportunities to connect with people in the same place--people who have felt a call, who see a need in the world and intend to fill it. Some are finishing college, some are in the midst of Seminary, but have an intense love God, justice and service.

The real blessings of the conference were not only the people, but also the worship. Worship was twice a day. The first act of our day was to center ourselves of God, and our last moments of the evening were spent focusing not on ourselves, but on the reason we were there.

A word about the image above is by a Chinese Christian artist named He Qi. The image is of Jesus calming the storm. Its good to remember that Jesus can calm our storms. See all of the galleries at www.heqigallery.com

So all this sounds pretty serious. I promise I’m not, so here’s a joke.

A really bad one.

Jesus and Satan were having an ongoing argument about who managed to get the most out of his computer. This had been going on for days and God, was tired of hearing all of the bickering.

God said, "Cool it. I am going to set up a test that will run two hours and I will judge who does the better job."

So down they sat at the keyboards and typed away. They moused away. They did spreadsheets, they wrote reports, they sent faxes, they sent out e-mail, they sent out e-mail with attachments, they downloaded, they did some genealogy reports, they made cards, they did every known job. But just a few minutes before the two hours were up, a lightening flashed across the sky. The thunder rolled and the rains came down hard. And of course the electricity went off.

Satan was upset. He fumed and fussed and he ranted and raved, all to no avail. The electricity stayed off. But after a bit, the rains stopped and the electricity came back on. Satan screamed, "I lost it all when the power went off. What am I going to do? What happened to Jesus' work?"

Jesus just sat and smiled.

Again Satan asked about the work that Jesus had done. As Jesus turned his computer back on the screen glowed and when he pushed "print it", it was all there. "How did he do it." Satan asked? God smiled and said, "Jesus Saves."

Until the next time, blessings.

The New Dog Dooner

2007-07-05T16:15:00.001-05:00

So, I realize it has been a long time since I updated the blog. Mea culpa.

But you should know that I have published a new website that includes an updated version of the Dog Dooner, so be sure to check it out for new entries and updates on my life!

here's the link.

web.mac.com/denmarkjon/

Check it out!

blessings.
jon.

The Bells of Christmas

2006-12-25T21:33:00.000-05:00

It was raining this morning when I woke up. I can't remember the last time it rained on Christmas.

I can't say that I was devestated, though. When I first came to this morning, I heard the rain, saw a soft glow gently lighting the trees, then drifted back to sleep. It was nice.

I remember a time when I would be so disappointed if it was raining on a major church holiday like Christmas or Easter. I recall one Easter in particular when it was raining. I thought how horrible it was that the day on which we celebrated the pinnacle of the Liturgical year. Up from the grave He arose admist a light drizzle and grey skies--perfect.

Of course, the underlying message here is that the weather is virtually pointless. It doesn't matter whether it is raining or snowing or sunny or cloudy. The point isn't in the weather. The point is in the birth. A birth that leads to reconciliation, to love, to God.

Longfellow wrote a poem in the mid-1860's which was later converted into a beloved American carol. "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" was written in the midst of the Civil War. Initially a respone to a war-torn country, it speaks volumns to us here, and now.

The last verses are as follows:

And in despair I bowed my head
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

God isn't dead. He was just born--ageless, eternal, ours.

On a lighter note:

Two years ago, I wrote this column about my kid cousin's visit to a living navity. I think I'll share it with you again here.

Merry Christmas, and Grace and peace to you and your family.

The Horse’s Gift

“And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”
-Luke 2:7

The holidays are once again upon us. I’m sitting in the Greensboro Airport, waiting on a delayed flight home for Thanksgiving and wondering where all these people are headed to. Are they all going home too? You have those who are clearly business folks, still trying to make deals on their cell phones. Then of course, there are those last straggler college kids (like myself) who, for whatever reason, weren’t able to scream out of their school like their peers did at the end of their last class. And then there are the families.

It always amazes me that cold weather always brings about the desire for family. Maybe it comes from our ancestors cuddled close together in a cave—the more bodies, the more heat. In any case, I’m looking around in this airport and I see them everywhere. Moms, Dads, Kids. They are smiling, sleeping, screaming. But they’re here—together.

And it’s this time of year, complete with abundant family memories, that always reminds me of those great family stories that are put away for a full year but always rise to the surface for a month of humiliating glory. For years we shamefully shy away as our parents and their generation find delight in retelling the age old tales of our past embarrassments. But there comes a time when we each must move on from our own humiliations and begin to initiate the newer generations. In the spirit of passing the torch to the younger members of my family, I tell you this story.

It was Christmastime. Growing up in the South, one quickly learns that we have a penchant for exaggeration and an innate need to paint as realistic a picture as possible. So, in the midst of such merriment and cheer, my family, in true Southern nature of reliving the past decided that it was time to introduce my cousin—five at the time to her first living nativity. Think Civil War re-enactors meet Bible. What better way to help her experience what many in my family refer to as “the Miracle of Christmas” than to take her to a barn called the Corral?

We arrived shortly before the Nativity began, walked in, and my cousin promptly sat on a bale of hay. The lights snapped off (the luxury of dimming the 60 watt bulbs was non-existent, we were in a barn). Music began, and a section of the barn was suddenly filled with light. Lo and behold, it was Mary complete with virgin blue covering her head, riding a donkey, and talking with an authentic Southern Hebrew drawl.

They passed the innkeeper who informed them oh-so-politely that there was no room in the Inn and that they could use his barn. I don’t know what he was thinking—we were already in one. Mary and her man, Joseph, found their way to a pile of hay, the lights went out, and momentarily we had a baby—flailing arms and all. It was actually a pretty clean kid—not what’d you expect.

Of course, the sheep came with papa shepherd and three son shepherds (one of which almost lost his sheep—thank God papa shepherd had a strong grip). The people went “aww” and the sheep exited after munching a little hay from just beneath the manger which looked suspiciously like 2x4 framing materials.
Next we were graced by the presence of the Three Wise Men. A grandiose version of “We Three Kings” began to play as they each came in individually, their horses adorned with beautiful fabrics that matched their own magnificent garments. Upon the beginning of the chorus, they each, with passionate flair, bowed to the Baby King.

It was during the third king’s bow and offering of his myrrh that the horse decided to give his own gift. It too decided to give incense—of sorts. Almost immediately, half the kids sitting on the front row of hay stood up and found their families. Their leader? My cousin. “O Holy Night” was blaring as the star shined its brightest over the manger and the Corral didn’t necessarily witness the remainder of the Nativity. Instead, they saw the second exodus—that of the children.

My mother, particularly, tried to convince my cousin to go back and finish watching—the best was yet to come. She told my cousin that “It’s a barn. It’s gonna stink!” And stink it did.

But my cousin would have absolutely nothing to do with the rest of it. Somehow, the magic was lost in the smell for her. I have to admit, I wasn’t the biggest of fans either. After we left, my mother tried to explain that for the Holy Family, that barn was home. Maybe one day, my cousin will realize that sometimes the best things come from the smelliest of places.

blessings.
jon.

Back to Life.

2006-12-12T15:03:00.000-05:00

Well, here we are. A semester after Denmark. Numerically, if I were to sum this semester up, I would tell you that this semester consisted of 25 papers ranging from a single page to 30 pages, two tests, a final project, a shit-ton of reading (and really, that is the only word for it..no really), 13 chapels, 10 Pilgrim's Peaces, and a whole slew of chapter/organzation/team meetings later (just to scratch the surface), this semester has come to a close.

I wouldn't tell you that, though. I hate numbers.

If you were to ask about this semester, and what I've learned, I could hardly quantify it. Too often we measure life in days and hours and tests, and papers.

I've decided that I would tell you about this semester by experiences. If I had to sum it up in a word--I claim "regardless." I'll explain:

(1) From the get go, I have had the Truitt Center. My four co-directors, as well as the professional staff that work there have been my sanity this semester. From listening to my rants, to reading for me last minute in chapel, I have found a core group who will be there, and love me--faults and all. Regardless.

(2) I came out to my fraternity. Not that this was any grand surprise to them (I mean--I'm not the best at hiding the fact I'm gay), but it was the official "talk." Not only did I come out to my fraternity, but I was re-welcomed with open arms. The promise of brotherhood filled--regardless of where I was coming from.

(3) My call to ministry was affirmed by my church at Elon (Elon Community Church). After working with a small, supportive commitee, I was presented to the Church Council which voted to affirm my call unanimously.

(4) I left Spectrum leadership. It was time to move on, for me and them. It was a felling of success, knowing I had an impact on Spectrum and Elon. It was also devestating to leave an organization so close to my heart. It was a recognition of a fundamental shift that occurred while I was in Denmark. No longer do I need to be a gay minister, but rather a minister who is gay. It's been a long procfess, but one that I am glad happened. God and me--regardless.

(5) I had two classes which offered amazing course material and phenomenal classmates. I regularly was challenged, embraced, encouraged, and supported. Perhaps everything I said wasn't agreed upon, but at least it was heard. Such classroom enviornments are vital. My Senior Seminar class particularly solidified my belief that (1) religious studies majors are smart and (2) some of the smartest, creative, and vibrant people I have met during my time at Elon are religious studies majors and were in my Senior Seminar class.

(6) I lived with my two best friends at Elon. In doing so, i learned that living with roomates who you adore is a million times harder to do than living with people you only really know peripherally. From each of our quirks (Ree's left over milk in a glass in the fridge to Kaylin's purring to my ability to wait insane amounts of time before washing my clothes), to our different schedules, it has been a challenge..but I love them and they love me--regardless.

(7) No car. I was humbled by having to rely on others for rides in a place that has no public transport. The range of emotions I experienced was fascinating (in retrospect, while it was happening, it was a pain).

(8) Growing Up. I'm not sure that I have ever been able to as palpably tell that I am changing as much as I have this year. From living an ocean away from home, to learning new ways of dealing with people, this has absolutely been a semester of change. Good change. Glad Change.

All in all, this has been a year of life. Looking back, I can hardly believe where I was, and where I am now. I have travelled all over Europe and Russia, met amazing people, seen amazing places, and experienced amazing lives and worlds. And now that I can separate myself a little from those experiences, just what happened is finally coming into focus.

Even thinking about it brings me back to life.

blessings.
jon.

ps--The Dog Dooner Cafe' is back. Or at least that's the plan...jan..

moments

2006-07-30T19:53:00.000-05:00

"I want to know God's thoughts...the rest are details." -Albert Einstein

Have you ever had one of those moments? You know the kind of moments I’m talking about. The kind that hit you when you bite into a freshly baked strawberry crossant from the local bakery. Or the kind that overwhelms you when are busy working and stop to look up just in time to hear the rain start to fall and a train slice through the gray air—a dark storm blue as its only back drop. Or the kind that swells over you when you hear a long lost hymn that used to be a favorite. Or the kinds that freeze you in time—like when the sun sends its most brilliant rays of peach through your living room window just before it decides to call it a day. It’s almost like you are reminded of something you once were. Not in any mournful sense, but rather as a quiet tap on the shoulder saying “hey, don’t forget me…don’t forget where you came from.”

We, up at Elon, have been having an unusually harsh stint of storms. Not the afternoon thunderstorms that appear at the drop of a hat, and just as quickly vanish, leaving in its path an either refreshed air or a trail of the humidity of death. No, these were violent storms with the electric capability to light up a small town. It was during one of those storms that I was at work in the Sidetrack Grill. I was cleaning a table, and happened to look out through one of our side windows which are rounded on the top just as a freight train blew by, piercing the storm as if it was a sucker-punch by humankind against nature.

And in that moment of timelessness, there was a feeling of necessity. A necessity to be there, to witness that, to feel triumphs and defeats and tears and joy all to their fullest extent. To not simply settle for some meager passing thrill as the ultimate answer that we are all searching for, but rather delve deep beyond such moments into places where we find the sacred and mortal mingling. These places are so often whispering to us, calling us into our being while we are screaming each other deaf. How can we expect to hear the message when we refuse to listen and only find ourselves yelling about the details.

Because in the end, it’s the message that matters. Everything else is details. It fascinates me how much we fight and fingerpoint and get pissed off about the details, when, in fact, they are just that--details. The same message is true. The Resurrection gives life.

2006-07-24T19:50:00.000-05:00

In the hours just before the earth yawns into its deepest sleep, the heavens begin to sparkle with the intensity of a just-born piece of glitter multiplied infinitely--each one endless in color and singular in purpose. And in these moments of truest peace and calm, we find that the world has offered itself to us, and that it is all we can do to claim it, to own it, to love it. Because in the end, when the final votes have been tallied and the last voices heard, it was never about them in the first place. It was about us all along. For God isn't just in the magnificent, but also in the miniscule--those things which are so incredibly small and detailed and perfect that only the word magnificent could describe it. And in thoses details we find ourselves, individual and whole. Connected and uplifted. For God's existence in the magnificent and the miniscule means that God exists in us.

2006-07-23T20:04:00.000-05:00

so much that needs to be said. no way to organize it. yet.

"I'll tell you how the sun rose
A ribbon at a time..."
donald miller

candles in bottles and things of that sort.

2006-07-11T12:43:00.000-05:00

Ever since I can remember, front porches, or porches in general have played some role in my life. My early memories of porches come from my visiting my dad's family in the perfect small town of Southern charm-Crawfordville. Crawfordville, with it's one stop light and Confederate claim-to-fame home of Alexander H. Stephens (VP of the Confederacy), is a dot on the Georgia map, but full of memories. Whenever we would go visit my grandma and Aunt Jane, we would end up on a porch, rocking away, watching cars pass, and killing time.

My new front porch at the house I'm living in at Elon has a front porch. When my Aunt passed away a little over two years ago, I was lucky enough to inherit one of my Aunt's rockers. I've sat in it every day since I moved back to Elon. There is something about that motion--slow and steady and calm. I sit in that chair an am back in Crawfordville. Nothing much to do, and completely satisfied with that.

There is something about rocking that brings peace. Maybe it is the motion, maybe it is the quiet. Maybe it brings back subconscious memories of my mother rocking me to sleep.

I'm not sure exactly why it works, but when I sit on the porch, rocking, and I feel a warm breeze slide across the banisters and envelop me I feel them--Grandmas, Aunts, Uncles, Grandpas--all of them. They whisper through the woodchimes hanging above my head, quiet and calm and slightly restless. I see them blow through the windsock at then end of the long wood slats of my porch, seemingly satisfied that I'm doing alright.

I rode by a lawn that had just been cut again last night. Perfect.

It's nice to be back.

blessings.

jon.

cut and clean.

2006-07-01T20:27:00.000-05:00

The Lady in Pink, as she is called, is a cashier at one of my family's favorite BBQ joints. Her title isn't as romantic as it sounds because the woman, over the years, has fallen into somewhat of a slump in the eyes of the family. To put it bluntly, she's a tad bitchy for us all. Her title isn't one of chivalrous respect, but rather of an air of "you-don't-deserve-a-name."

Now, of course, none of us really despise her. It's just that none of us have had a positive experience with her. Ever.

We were eating there tonight, and for some reason, it hit me that to some extent, we are all the lady in pink. We all have some trait or have had some interaction with someone that leaves us in a less-than-ideal situation when dealing with others.

The way we handle the ladies in pink, though, is all wrong. We are quick to see the pink shirts everyone else wears--t-shirts, tank tops, v-necks and spaghetti straps, but find it extremely difficult to see our own pink. I don't wear pink. I wear magenta. I'm not that bad, you just have to know how to take me.

No. You are that bad.

And so am I.

That's the point. In Christ, our pinks become white, bleached clean again.

On the way home, I past a lawn that had just had it's grass cut. The scent of clean green flooded the car, and I thought, just for a moment, that maybe that is what heaven smells like.

blessings.
jon.

Sweet and Low.

2006-06-30T17:39:00.000-05:00

I've been back in Atlanta since Sunday. Back from Austin, TX that is. I was there for the Excellence in Ministry sponsored by the Fund for Theological Education. The theme of the conference was "The Promise of Ministry" and it brought together nearly 150 would-be ministers all at different places on their particular paths towards figuring out how they are each called to work for and serve God.

It's been nearly a week since I returned. And it has taken me that long to really begin to digest what I experienced there--a task that has begun, but has hardly finished. I have been meaning for the past 5 days to write about it, but this conference was one of those times that one really doesn't know how to begin.

It was four days packed full of amazing preaching, friendships, discussions, prayer, and love. What is unique about all this is that hardly any of us knew one another before we arrived. We ate dinner that first night keenly aware of our denominational differences, but also realizing our two foundational commonalities: a calling and Christ.

Through the hours we spent together, we heard speakers that inspired, attended seminars that challenged, and participated in roundtable discussions that embraced. There is so much to tell about this weekend and the friendships made and the experiences had, so please don't be suprised when these stories pop up throughout subsequent. Here is the first.

The night before we left, there was a wonderful Taize' inspired worship service. Founded in 1940, the Taize' community is an ecumenical community that works to reconcile differences between Catholic and Protestant traditions. Through contemplative and purposeful prayer and song, participants are often able to find themselves on a common plane, a common call--Christ.

We had two hours for worship that Saturday night. Truth be known, I'm not sure any of us were particularly gung-ho about sitting in church for two hours..even if we all were considering ministry, but we filed into the chapel at Austin Theological Presbyterian Seminary at dusk to be greeted by the soft glow of a sanctuary filled with candle light. Around the windows were icons of Saints. Around the chapel itself there were stations for foot washing, prayer, and annointing. We were encouraged to follow the spirit in song, in prayer, and in interaction.

At first, things were awkward. No one was really thoroughly familiar with the process (excepting those who had been to the Taize' community in France), but as the night moved on, we all became comfortable. There was an air of reverence, of holy, of a sacred commonality in that space. We all came from different backgrounds, but Christ was there, and in Christ we were one.

Towards the end of the evening, there was a lull in the music and someone in the back hummed the first strains of Amazing Grace--sweet and low. The next line found itself actually being sung, followed by a small group singing the following line. Soon the entire chapel was softly echoing "was blind, but now I see." Soon the chapel was in full blown song--joyfully, sublimely alive with a song that seemed to express a common emotion and appreciation.

What happened next, though, was simply wonderful. We all finally reached the fourth verse.

When we've been there 10,000 years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we first begun.

We bellowed the words full of joy and hope and appreciation and anticipation. Never have I heard such exultation in such a moving way. We sang it and we believed it. From there, some one started singing "Praise God" over and over to the tune of Amazing Grace.

That's about all we could say, that was all there was left to say. It was the only thing that could possibly sum up where we all were--all because of this amazing grace that brought us each there.

blessings.
jon.