I had a total geekout yesterday about these trees.
When I walked out of the gym, I just stood there, stunned that so many gorgeous fall leaves were present in one place. Of course, I did more than just stand there. I took a bunch of photos and recorded a goofy, geekout video on Snapchat.
Beyond the worthy geekout, however, these trees also remind me of something. I think they’re a valuable symbol, especially as we feel fatigued and on edge during this election season.
Every autumn, trees reveal their vibrant colors when their energy is shifted toward their roots.
All spring and summer, leaves gather energy for sustenance and growth through their photosynthesis process. When the autumn begins, leaves don’t really turn red, orange, yellow, and brown. They are revealed to be red, orange, yellow, and brown. In preparation for winter, deciduous trees stop their photosynthesis process. As a result, the accompanying color of green recedes, and we see the revealed colors of these leaves. This process prepares for the winter season in which roots can continue to thrive and grow.
When we see the vibrant colors of autumn, we might also make spiritual analogies and ponder our own rooting process.
As we think about the present moment we’re living, and the future we want to live,
What forms of energy do we need to shed?
What forms of energy do we need to pursue?
To what and to whom are we rooted?
With what and with whom are we connected?
How can a sense of groundedness reveal beauty?
How can rootedness help us see the worth and value of our neighbors?
During this season, when we see the trees (and potentially, have a geekout) perhaps we can ponder these kinds of questions. As I watch trees make these changes, I like to imagine that their energy and focus is moving into the ground — into the most foundational parts of being — and I find myself wanting to do the same.
What do we need to bring inside ourselves toward the most foundational parts of our being?
Without question, this election season has affected our collective stress levels, hasn’t it? Along with the uncertainty of its conclusion, we continue to encounter rhetoric and incident reports of racism, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia. It is troubling. I’ve had conversations with friends, and we all feel affected by this. We’re thoughtful and proactive about these harmful trends, but we’re also on edge.
This week, I started turning off social media a few hours before bed, and I’m stunned at how much better I’ve been sleeping. Sleep is deeper and more sound when I do this. I’m wondering, what has been working for you? How do you find ways to step away from the rhetoric in order to practice healthy self-care?
We all need to stay informed and active, not only toward the election, but toward each other. This rhetoric is challenging, but it’s more than words. It’s inciting violence and threats of violence. That’s serious. We have to counteract it with empathy, care, allyship, and advocacy toward our neighbors. This means that we have to continue to engage.
But we also have to take care of ourselves. This likely affects us in different ways and to varying degrees. These days, social media stories are often challenging in their content, but they’re also stressful in their energy. We need to replenish that energy toward self-care and social action.
So what’s working for you? What would you like to try?
I’m going to keep unplugging some in the evening hours. Of course, it’s ironic that I post this today because I’m going to make an exception this very evening. I’m going to live tweet tonight’s debate and tweet along with #presbyintersect. As for the second piece, every Wednesday night, a bunch of thoughtful Presbyterians have a Twitter conversation at #presbyintersect about intersectional needs for justice in the world and the life of faith. These conversations have been so fruitful.
So, my social media-free evenings are not a hard and fast rule, but I’m going to keep trying this. Sleep is simply so much better. What about you?
Earlier this month, my husband and I spent a weekend in Petoskey, Michigan. This small town is located alongside Lake Michigan, and each night, if it’s not too cloudy, people can watch the sunset right over the lake. The view is stunning. Sometimes I forget how miraculous this is. . . The sun sets without fail every evening, yet no two views are the same.
The first night we were there, we saw a sunset unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Just above the water, along the horizon, there was a thick, fiery band of light. No grand swirls in the sky; just one bright, luminous band.
A jetty was in front of us as well, and it contained a walkway toward a lighthouse. As we watched the evening light in the sky, two individuals came into view. One was walking toward the lighthouse, and the other was walking away from it. Though they did not know each other, their silhouettes met within this light of the horizon. It was gorgeous, and no photo did it justice.
Beautifully, it reminded me of a metaphor that Diana Butler Bass uses for God.
She says that throughout most of our human history, we have practiced a vertical spirituality. In our minds — and especially, in our unconscious minds — we tend to think of God as literally ‘up.’ God is up there. . . somewhere. Some of this thought is connected to Christian scriptures, but it’s also a vestige of having believed in a literal, three-tiered universe. God is up, far away in heaven. We are here. And below us lies some kind of netherworld.
Diana Butler Bass writes that for most of our history, religious institutions have functioned a bit like an elevator within that consciousness. They work to bring us closer to that distant God, who is up there. . . somewhere. In response, she says, we have built vertical hierarchies, and Church architecture often mirrors our vertical spirituality too.
Bass believes that we are experiencing a major shift these days. I also sense it. Do you? More and more, people are longing for a horizontal spirituality, a sense that God is with us in our everyday experiences.
. . .God with us on the ground. . . . God with us in our everyday lives. . . . God with us in the midst of suffering. . . . God with us in horizontal relationships,
connecting us in friendship and community,
connecting our world in justice and equity.
God with us. This conviction brings us back to the language of incarnation.
I recently heard Diana Butler Bass talking about these thoughts on a podcast. The hosts asked her if she might provide a particular image or metaphor to think God in a horizontal framework. I loved what she said.
She said, “Yes, actually, the horizon itself.” She mentioned that some have expressed concern that she’s deemphasized the transcendence of God in her arguments — that is, God as holy, mighty, and mysterious. She said that the image of the horizon gives a different view of transcendence.
No matter how much we approach the horizon, it’s always before us, still a mystery. Yet it’s always with us on our plane.
I love it.
God with us.
Mysterious, yet incarnational,
an ever-present Horizon on our plane.
This sermon was preached at Peoples Presbyterian Church in Milan, Michigan and was focused upon Luke 18:1-8 The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
As Jesus and his disciples were traveling throughout the region of Galilee and preaching to the people, the Pharisees once asked him when the Kingdom of God was coming. As Jesus answered them, he included this parable.
Our text this morning starts in this way: “Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.” This is an interesting way to begin, because perhaps, in a variety of life chapters, we have known what it means to lose heart. We’ve likely known what it feels like to be in a situation that is disappointing or desperate.
Jesus then tells a story about a deep and serious desperation, perhaps more intense than most of us have known personally. It’s a story about a widow, a woman who held virtually no social standing or institutional power in Jesus’ day. In their culture, after the death of her husband, she would have been completely dependent upon male relatives for care and sustenance.
But despite this situation of institutional powerlessness, she was fierce and powerful in her relentlessness.
Jesus says,
“In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Grant me justice against my opponent.’ For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, ‘Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.’”
The judge shifted his position because the widow was fierce and relentless in her cry and demand for justice.
Jesus continues,
“Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to the chosen ones who cry to God day and night? Will God delay long in helping them? I tell you, God will quickly grant justice to them.”
This is an intriguing parable. It’s a challenging parable.
If we read it or hear this on a surface level, it might also be a confusing parable. Jesus tells a story about an unjust judge and then makes a conclusion about God. Are we to compare God to an unjust judge? And is this how we’re supposed to think about prayer? That is, if we just pray continually enough and bother God enough –
maybe then, God will hear us?
maybe then, God will grant justice?
maybe then, God will usher in the Kingdom?
Are we simply trying to annoy God? If we read or hear this on the surface, we might begin to think in this way.
But Jesus is talking about something much deeper. He’s talking about something that is much more beautiful. In his parables, Jesus often makes comparisons with a question that lingers in the air. That question is, “Then, how much more?”
If this unjust judge, who neither fears God nor has respect for people, will eventually grant justice, then how much more will a loving God hear the cries of God’s people and grant them justice? How much more?
This question doesn’t place God far away, perhaps distant yet listening. No, this question places God right alongside human beings in situations of injustice – bearing patiently with them, nurturing them, and crying out also. For God is truly a God of justice.
This parable teaches us that God cares about justice, but it does more than that. This parable teaches us about the location of God in times of suffering. [1] God is not removed from us. God is with human beings. God always stands on the side of those who are being wronged.
Jesus indicates this as he concludes this parable. Our translation today renders his words into two sentences: “And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night?” and “Will he delay long in helping them?” But there is actually another choice that translators can make as they translate here from Greek to English. A little Greek word – kai – is like the word ‘and.’ It signals the beginning of one thought and then transitions to the next. But the word kai can also be translated as ‘even.’ If so, these two sentences are one larger thought.
Borrowing from a translator named D. Mark Davis [2] we might hear Jesus’ words as, “Then will God not produce the vindication of his elect who cry out to him day and night, even bearing patiently with them?” Bearing patiently. . . with them. This gives us an image of God standing alongside those who know injustice, showing patience, nurture, and love.
Jesus asks this question to give us a picture of who God is and how God loves. But this question is not the last of this parable. There is one final, concluding question, and I believe it is asked of us today. After speaking about God’s commitment toward justice through prayer, Jesus asks, “And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
That is how the parable concludes. “And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” This question impacts me to the core of my being. Perhaps it challenges you too. After Jesus speaks about God’s commitment toward justice through prayer and God’s location among hut neighbors, he says, “And yet. . .”
“. . .when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
Will the Son of Man find us standing where God is standing —
alongside those who are being wronged?
alongside those who know discrimination?
alongside those who are affected by violence?
alongside those who are harmed through all the sinful isms we create,
systems of racism, homophobia, sexism, poverty and xenophobia –
all the harsh words and acts of violence
we put into the world against one another through our sin?
“And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” Where will we be standing?
God hears those who cry out day and night. But do we? As Christians, do we hear these cries for justice? As human beings, do we hear these cries with empathy as calls to action? Do we?
Like this persistent widow, our neighbors – the neighbors of God – are fierce and relentless in these cries, and we will be changed by them if we but listen, go, and stand where they are standing –
to learn,
to bear patiently,
to nourish, and
to begin to add our voices as well.
If we will follow this Jesus and stand alongside the neighbors of God — who are our neighbors — we will participate in the very Kingdom of God.
After all, Jesus told this parable as an answer to a question. The Pharisees asked him when the Kingdom of God is coming.
Now none of us can bring that Kingdom into being apart from God’s power, but we do participate in it with God’s empowerment. And I wonder what would happen if we, the Church, stepped out of this building today, determined to participate in that Kingdom by standing among our neighbors, right where God is standing? What would happen?
Perhaps we would begin to bring some of that justice into being.
Perhaps we could live alongside others as answered prayers.
So we will let this question linger in our minds and hearts:
“And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
Do you ever find yourself wondering, “These things I’m doing. . . Do they really matter? Do they make any difference?”
The answer is a resounding yes.
On average, each person on the planet consistently affects 8,000 people every day.
I learned this from a tremendous book. It’s called, Connected: The Surprising Power of Social Networks and How they Shape Our Livesby Nicholas Christakis and James Fowler. In the book, Christakis and Fowler conduct intriguing scientific research on social networks to discover how they connect us and affect us. I find their conclusion to be stunning: Daily, our actions, thoughts, and emotions impact others. That’s where this number comes from: On average, we affect approximately 8,000 people every day.
How did they calculate this number?
Christakis and Fowler have discovered that on average, each person knows twenty people well enough to invite them to a dinner party. If those friends then know twenty people to the same degree, and then those friends know twenty people to the same degree, we are talking about 20 x 20 x 20 = 8,000 people.
We are relationally connected and deeply embedded in these relationships. Their research revealed that we affect and are affected by our friends’ friends’ friends in social and emotional contagions. Even if we don’t directly know these people three degrees away, we are consistently impacting each other every single day of our lives. That’s astonishing.
Christakis and Fowler discuss the ways that our actions, thoughts, and emotions impact others. When we feel joy, calm, stress, or anxiety, we often pass our emotions to one another in contagion. Sometimes, this happens as quickly and simply as seeing someone’s facial expression. The mirror neurons in our brains fire to make a similar facial expression, and then we feel a similar emotion too. This can happen with fear. It can also happen with a smile. These are truly contagious.
So, if we have the ability to impact a social network as large as 8,000 people pretty unconsciously, what is possible if we consider this consciously? How can we positively affect our social network with acts of compassion, advocacy, and solidarity?
How can we positively affect our social network through our own self-care and personal, spiritual practices? These enrich us, but they can also add wellbeing to the whole. We are deeply connected to others. We can truly have an impact upon 8,000 people.
What happens when we show up in person to solidarity events and see the humanity of one another? What emotional contagion of hope is unleashed when we see large-scale solidarity events on Facebook live?
All of these things launch social contagions of connectedness and continued action.
If you doubt your ability to affect things, please know that these matter. Everything you’re doing definitely matters.
I’ve been pondering something quite a bit as of late. . .
I’m concerned about an ever-growing reality I’m observing in American churches. As our political and cultural discourse continues to stigmatize certain groups and identities, I see a trend within congregations. More and more, when Christians choose to advocate publicly for those who are maligned and vulnerable, they face a backlash of harsh criticism. Most specifically, they are told that their words are “too political.”
Who is raising this criticism? Fellow Christians.
Like any group of Americans, Christians are divided as they head toward the ballot box in November. I think most anticipate disagreement in the social mediasphere. But the primary context of this criticism — “you’re being too political” — isn’t Facebook or Twitter. The primary context is worship itself.
We all know that religious leaders cannot endorse or advocate for particular political candidates in worship. They can do this as private citizens on their own time in other contexts, including publicly. But they cannot endorse candidates in worship without jeopardizing their congregation’s tax exempt status. More importantly, this is a moral imperative. We believe in the freedom of conscience, and it simply isn’t ethical for a religious leader to dictate how others should cast their votes.
As far as I can tell though, this is not happening in any of the churches I know. (It may be happening somewhere. . . but not anywhere I know). Yet this “you’re being too political” comment is leveled all the time in the churches I do know.
Here’s where the challenge arises: Entire groups of people are being maligned in our political discourse. This is happening regularly, and threats are becoming increasingly overt. We’ve watched this happen throughout the entire election season.
Mexican immigrants have been labeled criminals and rapists.
Disabled journalists have been mocked.
Syrian refugees have been compared with the terrorists that displaced them.
Black Americans have been attacked when they protest police brutality.
Muslims have faced the threat of a total immigration ban.
Women have heard claims of sexual assault reduced to “locker room talk.”
In this election season, we’ve seen entire groups labeled and stigmatized. This has been deeply traumatic for many people. Religious leaders have a dual responsibility to proclaim good news and liberation toward those who are suffering and issue a call toward justice. This is not the responsibility of leaders alone, however. It is the calling for all people of faith. Likewise, it is the calling for all humanity.
But. . . what happens when these words of good news, liberation, and justice are spoken against the rhetoric of the cultural discourse itself? Immediately, people in the pews recall who has spoken against Mexican immigrants, disabled journalists, Syrian refugees, black Americans, Muslim immigrants, and women. Even now, you are likely thinking about Donald Trump because he has indeed stirred up some of this rhetoric. But these forms of marginalization are not limited to him. Other politicians are speaking in these ways. American citizens across the nation are speaking in these ways.
Some applaud candidates for being politically incorrect, expressing admiration for the ways they say whatever they’re thinking. Some of the same people then sit in pews and stifle forms of faith speech, claiming that it’s political and therefore, off-limits.
Sadly, if religious leaders issue calls for justice on behalf these particular oppressed groups and name them from the pulpit. . . people get quite defensive. Religious leaders face backlash and are scapegoated. In some contexts, even their employment is threatened.
We should let all of this sink in. Let’s think about this. . . Christians, are we really going to create a reality in our churches where we cannot stand up for the oppressed because political leaders are the ones publicly speaking the oppressive language? Who ultimately governs our commitment toward the polis (i.e. the city and community) — secular politicians or Jesus? Is it now off-limits to speak love for immigrants, refugees, disabled people, women, and people of other faith traditions?
I’m not advocating for endorsements or partisanship in worship. Far from it. But I am saying that we cannot afford to lose our center. Jesus said, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”
We cannot claim to follow Jesus Christ without loving our neighbors. This means that we must defend them fiercely when they are attacked and marginalized. None of us does this perfectly, of course, but this commitment remains at the center.
Love is never reduced to partisanship, but it must be expansive enough to include our particular neighbors.
Thank you for visiting Smuggling Grace today. I want to express my gratitude for everyone who visits, reads, subscribes, and cultivates conversations here. I write a variety of pieces each week and am committed to keeping my written content free of charge. But for those who would like to support this work financially, I offer opportunities to contribute. Today I want to thank abby mohaupt for being one of those new supporters. Thank you, abby!
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These days, we all feel it. Sometimes, we’re fully conscious of the stress surrounding us. Other times, we’re less aware of it concretely but find ourselves unexpectedly anxious, irritable, or tired. This election season and its rhetoric have us on edge. . . We’ve witnessed police shootings and brutality on camera. . . Our social media newsfeeds have thrown us into traumatic subjects like gun violence, harassment, xenophobia, and sexual assault.
In times like these, I’m reminded of what my friend and colleague, the Rev. Lindsey Anderson says: Self-care is an act of resistance. It’s also an act of resilience.
Self-care is an act of resistance.
When we care for our bodies, minds, and spirits, we proclaim our worth and value. We do this in the face of forces which tell us otherwise. When we practice self-care intentionally, we resist troubling systems and isms along with their destructive hierarchies of worth. We are truly worth care and empowerment.
To practice self-care, there are times when we may need to step away temporarily from the rhetoric that swirls about us. We take space and ground ourselves in alternative messages which mirror the truth of our own value and power.
Privilege can get tricky here. If we find ourselves in a privileged position, we might be tempted to disengage from troubling rhetoric entirely. It’s not our battle, we may tell ourselves, even unconsciously. To avoid discomfort or responsibility, we may deny that discrimination, harassment, and violence are even real. In these cases, we wound others. When we distance ourselves from news stories and social media, it’s important to have self-awareness of what motivates us.
Yet in the midst of traumatic news and rhetoric, it’s important for us all to speak out, protest, and work for change. This is challenging work, and it requires self-care. When we feel like we’re buckling under the weight of it all, we need to root ourselves in the truth of our value. Even this — and at times, especially this — is resistance.
Self-care is an act of resilience.
When we practice self-care, we also give a gift of resilience to ourselves and our communities. Though our newsfeeds use algorithms to divide our social networks, we are affected by what our friends, colleagues, and acquaintances have to say. There are tensions and disagreements during this election season, yet our relationships and social ties continue to connect us.
When tensions are high, our social connections can create emotional contagions of anxiety and anger. Self-care in any one individual can slow that contagion. To be sure, anxiety and anger are natural and the most obvious and healthy responses to a threat. But unchecked, they can take on a life of their own. Self-care adds strength and resilence to wider social networks, increasing the potential that we can be responsive rather than reactive.
So where do you find yourself in this conversation?
Do you need to engage self-care, and if so, what works for you?
We all know that religious clergy should never endorse or advocate for political candidates in worship or in congregational literature. Likewise, though they can express their own personal views, in those particular contexts, they should not tell anyone how they should cast their votes. This is important legally. It’s also important morally.
But by all means, it is crucial to speak out consistently when people are harmed, discriminated against, and maligned in our culture and cultural discourse. And it is crucial to speak with care and empowerment toward people who are traumatized. Both of these are central to faithful witness and relationships.
Tomorrow, religious leaders will stand before religious communities and speak up against misogyny and other forms of hatred. And. . . in some contexts, they will then be attacked for being “too political.”
I’m just going to be honest here:
For clergy, and women clergy in particular, if they are attacked in this way, it’s going to add to the trauma of this weekend.
How can it be off limits to uphold the humanity of women, people of color, refugees, and immigrants? Intentions and actions to love our neighbor remain a central part of the life of faith. It is also a central part of what it means to be human.
Nationalism is not the center. A party is not the center. No political candidate is at the center.
Our neighbors do have a central place.
Please be kind to religious leaders tomorrow. They have a difficult job. And male clergy, we need you to be good allies tomorrow. This can’t be on the backs of women alone, though we will rise to the moment.
Love, prayers, peace, and fierce neighborliness to everyone tonight.
A friend and colleague recently introduced me to a poem that I love. From time to time over the next few weeks, I’m going to keep reading it aloud. We can live this vision together.
I’m also curious how you would answer the last line. I really want to know. I invite you to post a comment or send me a message. What do you dream and imagine?
This poem is by Marlene Marburg of Victoria, Australia:
“Dreaming a Grace”
I imagine a place
a-fire
people gathering, sharing
food and conversation and
their deep desires
for the way things can be
in this world at this time
in places
where Church is crumbling
and a new consciousness
of God in all things
(in joy and pain)
is emerging
without competition,
without striving to be or do anything.
I imagine listening and awakening, and holding
as precious each other
and each other’s gifts and each other’s dreams,
inviting each other to speak,
to show and tell stories,
to challenge and be challenged
by the arts,
to say what can only be spoken
in airy spaces,
to separate stifling rules and blinkered vision
from expansive love and kindness.
I imagine insight and discernment
and holy decisions and implementation.
I imagine shared prayer
and the uplifting grace of love
that won’t tolerate stinginess,
maintaining the way things have been.
I imagine leadership that enables
recedes from its own ego,
from the disabling power of self-doubt.
I imagine a ritual of reclaiming, reshaping
a communion of souls,
lifted and raised to the Mystery of God
the mystery of each other.
I imagine a quiet interior ‘yes,’
a buoyant ‘yes,’ risking the storms
which try to drown God’s feet in us.
I imagine daring and courage
until they are no longer such.
I imagine the ‘yes’ of Jesus
tipping tables and healing hearts,
the ‘yes’ disposition to all-things-God
that took him to Gethsemane.
I imagine post-resurrection people,
Pentecost people
living the unquenchable flame.
Please visit Marlene Marburg’s website to learn more about her poetry and work as a spiritual director. She recently wrote a book called Dreams and Desires, in which she asked the question, ‘What do you imagine?’ of 120 people and edited their replies in prose and poetry. Please check that out here.
When my husband and I moved from California to Michigan, we took a cross-country road trip. We saw gorgeous landscapes all along the way, though the first day gave us the best vision of all. On that day, we rolled out of our driveway in Pasadena and drove to the Grand Canyon. The grand architecture, carved by one river over an immense amount of time, included some of the most breathtaking scenes imaginable.
We admired that landscape in the daylight, but after sunset, we encountered another view just as profound. With all forms of light pollution removed, we saw the immense sky of stars. To this day, I’ve never seen anything quite like that view.
It took our eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness and take in the full expanse with its multitude of small details. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many stars as I did that night. While we were standing outside and marveling at the view, Ian said something rather obvious, but I had truly never thought about it before.
“For the vast majority of human history, this is what everyone used to see.”
Assuming a sky clear of clouds, any night and every night, most of our human ancestors viewed a sky just as rich. In these last hundred years alone, the lights of our cities have begun to keep most of the stars hidden, even at nighttime.
There is a huge form of loss in that recognition. I pondered that while I stood in the chilly Arizona air. But that night, privileged to see this rare sight, I also felt rooted to a set of big-picture connections.
I thought about those ancestors, most of them beyond my imagination, who were able to view the night sky in the way I was seeing it now.
Connections across time.
I thought about those enormous, fiery stars, also beyond my imagination. Though farther away than can easily be fathomed, they are large and powerful enough for us to see them right here.
Connections across space.
Since that roadtrip just three years ago, more earth-like planets have been discovered around those enormous, fiery stars, raising even more questions about the potentiality of intelligent life elsewhere. Could intelligent beings have marveled at the sky that night from their locations, so distant from us, yet asking similar questions?
Connections across life.
When we begin to wrap our mind around the size of the universe, we easily feel miniscule in comparison. Perhaps, we also feel insignificant. But if we get away from the cities and take in the expanse of the sky, we might also feel connected to this great, significant existence. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll even find our place in it.
Smuggling Grace 