Last April, my father in law spent an amusing day in North Dakota. It was just one day, but his journey was intentional. For decades, he’s dreamed of completing a particular goal: He has wanted to visit all 50 states. Since he already knew that Alaska would be his culminating state this summer, he bought a purposeful plane ticket to North Dakota. He would spend one day in the Peace Garden State and gain his 49th state.
He arrived in Fargo and found a Visitor’s Center. Once he opened the door, he saw an easel. It read, “Welcome to Your 50th State!” With some eagerness, he looked forward to telling the staff that he was indeed in the midst of an all-state journey. But in a move I find to be hilarious, once he told them that this was his 49th state, they were completely unimpressed.
The staff member told him they have a “Save the Best for Last Club.” If North Dakota is a person’s 50th state, that person gets a patch and other memorabilia. My father in law asked if he could have a patch, and they refused.
Actually, the staff members weren’t jerks. They were quite nice, but they were steadfast about the rule. A few minutes later, a couple walked in and said, “Hey, this is our 50th state!” They got the patch and other gifts. They got to sign the book with hundreds of names. My father in law stood there deprived.
I find all of this to be so funny. But what I love most of all is that THIS IS A THING. People do this regularly enough that staff members at the North Dakota Visitor’s Center expect it. It turns out that North Dakota is the least visited state in the whole nation, and apparently, a sizeable percentage of visitors come for the precise purpose of saying, “Well, let’s go claim our very last one.” In the midst of this, North Dakotans have embraced a particular form of lastness, and they celebrate it as a culmination. There must be a lot of life metaphors in there somewhere. I love it.
In actuality, there are many great reasons to visit North Dakota. The landscapes of Theodore Roosevelt National Park and the International Peace Garden are gorgeous. In particular, Native American communities have been advocates for the welfare of this land. I admire the steadfast ways they are protesting currently to protect that land from the planned Dakota Access oil pipeline. They need our support in this effort.
My father in law didn’t have time to see this land in detail since he was only there for one day. He didn’t get to join the “Save the Best for Last Club” either. But he did get a funny consolation prize. In the very same Visitor’s Center, the staff let him pose for a picture with the Fargo wood chipper.
I’ve watched many a documentary on Netflix, and while I tend to be a sentimental person overall, I don’t particularly like total cheeseball films. That is, unless I’m laughing at them with Ian. But even in those moments, we just chuckle a bit, roll our eyes, and make a different selection.
But a few weeks ago, I watched a total cheeseball film in its entirety. I cannot overstate how exceedingly goofy it was in its presentation, but we watched all of it because it told an incredible story about dedicated scientists and innumerable monarch butterflies.
Flight of the Butterflies documents the lives of Fred and Nora Urquhart who spent 38 years working to discover the full migration patterns of monarch butterflies. From 1937 to 1975, they combined small-scale, detailed tracking with a large-scale movement of their own creation. They used self-adhesive stickers to tag the wings of individual monarch butterflies and recruited hundreds of citizen scientists to tag and record their sightings also. The Urquharts wanted to learn where these butterflies traveled over time, and many people in the U.S. joined them in these efforts.
Collectively, they all discovered several distinct migration routes, and for a long while, the Urquharts assumed that the butterflies converged somewhere in Texas. They took trips to Texas where they searched to no avail. Eventually, they began to wonder if Mexico was the destination.
In 1975, that became clearer. Kenneth Brugger and Catalina Trail, associates of the Urquharts, hiked to the winter sanctuary of monarch butterflies. This sanctuary exists on a mountain in Michoacán, Mexico. Mexicans had known about this location for years, but they did not know how far the butterflies had traveled. Adding their knowledge together, the migration patterns became known.[1]
When Brugger and Trail arrived in this location, they were stunned at what they saw. Somewhere between 60 million and 1 billion butterflies. . . on one particular mountain. At any time, this would be an incredible sight to see. But this discovery was additionally long awaited; it was long-hoped and long-dreamed.
In the next year, the Uruqharts traveled to the mountaintop and saw this incredible sight with their own eyes. I can hardly imagine what a culmination experience that would be. Day by day on the small-scale, they worked for an unseen conclusion that was decades in the making. Now they were seeing this massive winter sanctuary with their own eyes, knowing that along with others, their work had helped to map the full migration patterns of these butterflies .
It makes me wonder, do we carry any large-scale hopes? Are we captivated so deeply by anything that we would live and work in its direction daily for decades, even if we never saw the end result? Are will willing to work collectively with others? Will our lives have greater meaning if there is an ultimate goal or purpose before them?
[1] Though Mexicans knew about this incredible location, they were dismissed in the reporting on these events. For forty years, people have used language to say that Brugger, Trail, and the Urquharts “discovered” where these butterflies go. They certainly went on a journey to learn for themselves, and I admire that journey. But they could not have done so without the local citizens.
This sermon was preached at Crossroads Presbyterian Church in Walled Lake, Michigan and was focused upon Luke 14:1, 7-14. The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
A leader of the Pharisees invited Jesus into his house to share a meal on the Sabbath day. Other guests were invited as well. I wonder if they had any idea what they had signed up for, because Jesus certainly had some challenging words to share.
He watched all the guests sit down, and he decided to create a teaching moment right then. Throughout the Gospels, we often see that Jesus notices what is happening around him. He was quite intentional and present, always making meaning. . . always making parables out of everyday experiences. He opened up moments like these to teach about the ever-inbreaking Kingdom of God, and this moment was no exception.
Jesus noticed how the guests chose places of honor, and immediately, he told a parable. I wonder if the dinner guests became very uncomfortable or even angry. Likely, they simply wanted to enjoy the food or connect with the host. It appears that some of them wanted to be seen alongside the host.
But instead, it seems that Jesus becomes the host, painting a picture of how life in the Kingdom of God ought to be lived. He tells them how to behave at a dinner party, who to invite, and who not to invite. Of course, this all had meaning beyond the context of dinner parties. Jesus uses such a moment to remind us about what is truly valued in this Kingdom of God, so much so that we can live what is valued in particular moments our daily lives. Yes, even at our future dinner parties.
So let’s imagine the moment. . . Perhaps the guests are remarkably uncomfortable as Jesus begins to speak up. He says, “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.”
There’s something I wonder here in this little parable, and it’s this: Where was Jesus sitting when he spoke these words? What place did he inhabit at this dinner party?
Because we could hear this parable that he shares and think, “Goodness, is it all about upward mobility? Take the lowest place so that then you can move up in the presence of everyone!” Is it simply that, or is it deeper?
Here’s something to ponder: What if Jesus was sitting at the lowest place and yet speaking as if he was the host? Because his parable didn’t end with the words of upward movement — “’Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.” He said one more thing. It was his purposeful conclusion: “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Jesus took a moment — a scene that he was noticing in detail – and he opened it to speak truth about the Kingdom of God. That truth is this:
All those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
This phrase shows up in multiple contexts throughout the Gospels. And while it is a reversal, it’s not a reversal followed by the same dynamics we’re already used to. . . that is, dynamics of hierarchies. This is not simply about the lowest people becoming the highest, only to turn into oppressors themselves.[1] No, this is a new way of being. This is a leveling – a holy leveling that honors the worth and value of all people without the hierarchies of oppression that we tend to create.
I love to think of this: What if Jesus embodied this himself, choosing to sit in the lowest place, yet speaking as the host and the teacher? We don’t know, but I find that to be an intriguing possibility.
In this story, Jesus notices something in the details of daily living, and he opens it up to teach about the Kingdom of God. Then he begins to invite us to lean into this reality and live into it in our daily, detailed lives. Yes, even applying it to future dinner parties.
He continues to speak challenging words. Can you imagine what the guests are thinking and feeling? Can you imagine what the host is thinking and feeling? Jesus speaks these next words directly to him, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”
I wonder if an awkward silenced followed. . .
This is how Jesus sets the table. This is the table to which we are all invited, and this table beckons us to do some inviting. This is the table of the Kingdom of God where all are honored and made alive together.
Jesus says, invite those who are marginalized, not to get anything except to receive everything by living in love for its own sake. Abandoning hierarchies. . . stepping away from our personal pursuits of honor. . . and living into the Kingdom of God, honoring the worth and value of the very people we have so frequently pushed out.
This is how Jesus sets the table. And each Sunday, we gather together around a table. Sometimes, we do this in the experience of Holy Communion. Other times, we embody this great, loving feast as we worship, following the host of every sacred table into the reality of the Kingdom of God.
We say that Jesus is among us, but too often, we expect a simple Jesus, or a Jesus that confirms our collective cultures, whatever that mean to any given place. Can we expect and will we allow our lives to be changed by a Jesus who would speak challenging words to us today? Will we allow him to reorient us? Will we let him deconstruct our hierarchies? Turning toward the Kingdom of God, will we say yes to this reality, following Jesus as he reorients us outward toward our neighbors? Will we?
The Church desperately needs this reorientation.
I recently encountered an article by Thom S. Rainer. He is a long-time consultant and researcher of Christian congregations. The article is entitled, The Most Common Factor in Declining Churches. In this article, Rainer says, “Stated simply, the most common factor in declining churches is an inward focus.”
In some ways, this is not surprising, but it is hard to hear. Rainer gives a list of common traits found in inwardly focused congregations. To summarize them, congregations are inwardly focused when their ministries and budgets are used almost exclusively for their own members.
These days, I see a lot of congregations turning inward. Sometimes, congregations are afraid they will not be able to survive in the midst of so many rapid changes in religious demographics and congregational participation. Sometimes, survival is literally a question about staying open as a congregation; other times, survival is rooted in a desire to stay intact as is without having to make significant cultural and structural changes.
In the midst of these dynamics, congregations do begin to invite others into their collective life. Sometimes, this is motivated in discipleship and inclusion, but sometimes, congregations invite others in in order to gain. Sometimes, these invitations are given in attempts to secure current budgets for buildings, staff, and programs. That process is inwardly motivated.
But Jesus sets the table differently. And this day and every day, we are called to follow one who sets the table differently. He tells us not to limit our collective table to our friends or our brothers or our relatives or our rich neighbors, in case we may be repaid. We are to invite the marginalized and neighbors who remain unknown to us, and the only way to do this, is to go outward and form new relationships, leaving the walls of this sanctuary today and living with an outward orientation. If we do this, we will live for the sake of love itself, and we will know more fully the Kingdom of God in our midst. Will we do this today?
My friends, may God bless you,
and all people beyond this place, and
in your sacred meeting,
may a new, holy table be formed.
[1] I am grateful for the discussion between the Revs. Casey Wait Fitzgerald and Eric Fistler this week on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast. They discussed this observation.
I was traveling out of state a few weeks ago, and it gave me the good occasion to meet a close friend for breakfast. I arrived a bit early, so I decided to use the restroom first.
To do this, I walked toward the ordering counter. Then, I barely turned my body left to follow the signs toward the restroom, and an employee instantly spoke up. “The code is 8700,” she said. Somehow, in that tiny turn of my body, she already knew I was going to the restroom rather than walking forward to order, and she told me immediately how to crack the code.
I recognized there was a tremendous amount of privilege in this exchange. Before I even ordered, this employee assumed I would be a paying customer. She granted me the privilege to use the restroom in that establishment even before I requested the code.
I would be a paying customer in a matter of minutes, but in a split second, as we frequently do, she had made a lot of quick assumptions. It was hospitable for her to give me that code, and I appreciated her doing it. But in one quick glance, I was a future paying customer and not the kind of person these keypad locks aim to keep out.
That is, I’m not a person in the throes of homelessness. I am not displaced or transient. I am not considered to be poor, nor am I associated with any stereotype that conveys, “This person just wants a handout,” like a free restroom.
I can understand a business wanting to limit their restroom usage to paying customers. But at the same time, this had me thinking about my privilege and how difficult these realities must be for people without shelter. In such situations, one must find creative and free solutions to meet basic, bodily needs, while simultaneously maneuvering social situations that are potentially stigmatizing and unwelcoming.
Love Wins Ministries is a community of presence and pastoral care in Raleigh, North Carolina for those who are experiencing homelessness. Hugh Hollowell, founder of this ministry, says something beautiful and eye-opening about homelessness: “The opposite of homeless isn’t housed; it’s community.” When people have opportunities to belong in community relationships, they are less vulnerable to living on the streets. Without community connections and spaces of welcome, people are banished to live on the streets almost indefinitely.
One form of privilege becomes obvious when we can easily use a public restroom. Many of us are wealthy in relationships and forms of public access. How will we honor the humanity of those whose access we’ve impoverished, and how can we change that reality through intentional acts of welcome?
Thom S. Rainer, a long-time consultant and researcher of Christian congregations, wrote an article that has been shared recently in my social media circles. It’s entitled, The Most Common Factor in Declining Churches. In this article, Rainer says, “Stated simply, the most common factor in declining churches is an inward focus.”
In some ways, this is not surprising, but it is hard to hear. Rainer gives a list of common traits found in inwardly focused congregations. To summarize them, congregations are inwardly focused when their ministries and budgets are used almost exclusively for their own members.
These days, I see a lot of congregations turning inward. That is not the case across the board, of course. Many are engaged actively in their wider communities. But I see and feel this trend, and I hear it from others too.
So what does this trend look like? To begin, it might be helpful to say that inwardly focused churches can be quite loving. Often, these communities have formed deep bonds between their members over the course of decades, and they take care of one another with beautiful commitments. When new people show up, these members can even extend that care to include others. But by and large, these kinds of congregations have stopped reaching out, meeting their neighbors, or engaging in any kind of mission or service.
While this is happening, we are additionally experiencing rapid changes in religious demographics and patterns of congregational participation. We’ve probably all seen a host of articles trying to explain why Millennials do not affiliate with congregations to the same degree as previous generations. We’re learning about the rise of the Nones as well: These people are religiously unaffiliated and include approximately 23% of the U.S. population (7% are atheists and agnostics, and 16% identify as “nothing in particular” and/or “spiritual but not religious.”)
As congregations encounter these cultural shifts, they can become inwardly focused. This is connected to a desire to survive, and that force can be quite strong. Sometimes, survival is literally a question of whether a congregation can remain open; other times, survival is rooted in a desire to stay intact as is without having to make significant cultural and structural changes.
In the midst of all of these dynamics, some congregations become obsessed with gaining new members — less for the purposes of discipleship and inclusion (both faithful endeavors) and more for the purpose of maintaining current budgets for buildings, staff, and programs. Consciously and unconsciously, when presented with new ideas and opportunities for ministry, these congregations continually ask, “How will this benefit us?'[1] Opportunities for callings and connections then become occasions to do cost/benefit analyses: Will this idea gain us members? Will people leave the church if we follow this calling?
How will this benefit us?
In some contexts, this is absolutely a question of greed. In an effort to survive as is with an image that is affluent and influential, some congregations begin to run themselves like businesses and mirror the practices of the corporate world. But in other contexts, this question is an expression of authentic trauma. Congregations fear closing or losing what has been. At times, both dynamics can be present in the very same congregation.
Christian leaders have a dual calling to challenge this greed while comforting this trauma. It can feel like a fine line, but if we do this well and turn our orientation outward, it might just lead to a new reformation of the Church itself.
[1] I am grateful for a conversation I had recently with Rebecca Harrison, a Presbyterian leader in Asheville, North Carolina, and several other people in an online forum. She observed that too often, congregations ask, ‘”How will this benefit us?” Our discussion informed this post.
Last week, I visited my Grandma in Southern Indiana. We caught up with one another and shared the local gossip. She has lived in the same apartment building for sixteen years, and she has some great friends around her. I often hear about them when we see each other or talk on the phone. Though I’ve never met them in person, I’ve learned their names and know a bit about them.
Lately, she’s been mentioning a new friend. He’s relatively new, and in the short time he’s lived there, he’s transformed the place. And he’s done that in the simplest of ways: He just brings people together.
It’s that simple.
It’s that transformative.
Sam* makes big meals and invites everyone. Sometimes, he does most of the cooking himself. Other times, neighbors pitch in also. They seem to enjoy finding ways to complement his main dishes with their side dishes. They come together, laugh, and tell stories.
It’s that simple.
It’s that transformative.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sacred act of convening. To be honest, I think it’s magical. When we bring people together with intention, we begin to connect in ways that we never intended. That’s an interesting paradox, isn’t it?
When we create spaces for people to gather, or when we enter convening spaces of others, we can expect meaningful connections to happen. That’s the intention. But the particularities of how it will happen? We can never seem to predict it. Connections form in ways we never intended.
This is what we’re experiencing together in this new, unfolding community called Michigan Nones and Dones. Last October, we simply started to gather as a Meetup Group, and it has been magical. We are a community for people who are religiously unaffiliated (the Nones) and people who left traditional, religious institutions behind for a variety of reasons (the Dones). We have had conversations of depth and formed meaningful friendships. At times, our conversations have moved in directions I never dreamed. And it’s all still in process.
When my Grandma talks about her new friend Sam and these meals they’re all having, she uses language of resurrection. “This place was dead. But now it’s alive again.”
You can never anticipate fully how new life will emerge when people simply gather together. But often, it does.
Recently, my husband and I had the chance to meet someone new. Until that moment, she was completely unknown to us, but our stories are connected. She grew up in the house where we currently live.
As she was growing up, she was best friends with our neighbors’ daughter. Since she was back in town visiting (from the Austin area no less, where we also used to live) our neighbors walked a few doors down and introduced us. We began to tell stories about the house we shared.
Her stories had more depth and longevity, of course. This is our first house, and we’ve only lived here a year and a half. But as she talked about her parents and her growing up years, she answered some wonderful curiosities for us . . .
. . . Her father was locally famous for growing roses. He grew many in the backyard and more in the basement during the winter months. Our basement has many nails which supported grow lights for these roses.
. . . Her mother was locally famous for baking cakes, cupcakes, and pastries. That’s why we have an enclosed sunroom addition with a second sink. Even more important for baking, there used to be a second oven too.
. . . All the neighborhood kids used to play in our house and yard. It was a central location (and of course, the central place for all the delicious treats!)
I loved to hear about these. Stories of the past then easily moved to stories of the present. Our new friend loved that Ian is gardening here. He’s doesn’t grow roses, but many types of food and flowers are flourishing in the yard again. I loved to ponder our house’s history as a central location for people. We bought this particular house because we wanted to host others. It isn’t particularly large, but its rooms feel so spacious and open with a lot of light. They flow well into one another which is great for hosting.
Her family preceded us, and they lived here thirty years. We’ve been here less time, but we’ve inhabited the same space and made memories in it too.
And this made me wonder, how often are we unaware of this kind of experience? How often are we housed in the stories of others? There are obvious connections that we never think about. The only thing separating these connections is time. That’s it. Just time. What if we could know the stories that house us?
Stories of people and events on the same land,
Stories of people and events in houses of worship,
Stories of people and events in schools,
Stories of people and events across distant family trees,
And likely, many more stories, only unknown to us because time has passed.
I like to ponder this, and I’m curious to consider how we make stories now which will house others in the future.
This sermon was preached at First Presbyterian Church in Ypsilanti, Michigan and was focused upon luke 13:10-17. The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
Jesus was teaching in a synagogue, and right in the middle of his words, a woman appeared. This woman had a painful ailment which caused her to be bent over continually, and she had struggled in this way for eighteen years. She simply appeared while Jesus was teaching, and though we can’t know for sure, I wonder if she just wanted to sneak in. . .
I wonder if people ever really saw her, or if they merely viewed her through this ailment she was experiencing. Did they see her as a person of worth and value? Or did they somehow believe she was cursed because she had this struggle? We don’t know. Perhaps she had become somewhat invisible to the community. Maybe she decided to sneak in without much notice.
People may have stopped seeing her. At the same time, she struggled to see others. Bent over in that painful state, she could never look anyone in the eyes. I bet that was isolating. I imagine that was painfully lonely.
So she appears while Jesus is teaching, sneaking in and hoping to go unnoticed.
But Jesus sees.
Jesus notices.
Jesus sees the pain that she’s been carrying, but he also sees her. He sees her as a person of worth and value, a daughter of Abraham. She is a daughter of the covenant. She never asks for Jesus’ attention and notice, but he gives it generously with great care.
Jesus calls over to her and says, “Woman, you are set from your ailment.” I wonder what she began to think. . . Could it be true? But Jesus didn’t speak words only. With care, he laid his hands on her. And immediately, she stood up straight and began to praise God.
She stood up straight. In other places in the Bible, that kind of language is used to talk about resurrection. In a sense, this was a resurrection experience. She gained new life. She was restored to the community, and she rejoiced. Her pain ceased, and she was beginning to know her worth again. She never saw this coming, but Jesus saw her.
That was a happy, unexpected ending, but the story doesn’t end there.
It is also a challenge for us today.
The leader of the synagogue was furious. In fact, the story says that he was indignant. He stood up and began to speak. Though he was angry with Jesus for this action, I notice that he didn’t address Jesus directly. He addressed the crowd that was gathered there. “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not the sabbath day.”
This woman hadn’t asked for anything. She just stepped in, maybe hoping to be included, but the leader of this synagogue treated her as if she had interrupted everything. “Come on those days to be cured!”
She hadn’t asked for anything.
Jesus did this.
And Jesus comes to her defense. I imagine he was indignant himself. He saw some hypocrisy here, and he did not hold back. He said, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan has bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?”
Now keep in mind that Jesus had come here to teach, and now, having expressed compassion for this this woman and healed her, he was teaching. But he was teaching in ways they might not have expected. He was even teaching with some anger, reminding the people who they are, Whose they are, and Whose day this is. The Sabbath day belongs to God and is dedicated to freedom from oppression.
The Sabbath day of all days. . . shouldn’t it be a day of God’s Kingdom being realized? Is there not a better day to heal and see the worth of human beings, especially those who have been marginalized and pushed to the outside? Is there not a better day?
Jesus saw the great gulf between this indignation they were expressing and some of their own actions. So Jesus stands up for those who need healing. The Resurrected One reminds us what the Sabbath is all about. It is a part God’s reign being realized on this earth. And in in his angry words, the people were convicted. The story says that “his opponents were silenced,” and they all joined in this beautiful rejoicing.
Perhaps they didn’t expect to rejoice on this day in any special day. Maybe they didn’t expect to have their routine interrupted or to witness anything extraordinary. It makes me wonder. . . what did they expect? Did they expect to show up in the synagogue simply to have their just routine experience – to hear some holy words, to say hello to some friends, and go back home to other routines? Is that what they expected?
But they did experience something extraordinary:
The Kingdom of God will break in
whenever and wherever the Kingdom of God will break in. . .
And it makes me wonder. . . what do we expect? How might we need to be interrupted? Perhaps we need to be interrupted by people who are marginalized – people who are living their lives beyond our sanctuary walls this morning. If they decided to be present today, they might just come in a bit late, sit by themselves, and hope not to be noticed. They might not expect anyone to notice them and see their worth.
Maybe we need to be interrupted by the people who would never walk through the doors of a church building. Some feel that the Church has been too harsh and judgmental. At times, the Church speaks a language so removed from everyday life that it seems not to connect with others. Some have given up on Church and walked out altogether, and some have never entered because they don’t feel comfortable here. Is this what we expect? More of that? Maybe we need to form relationships with our neighbors and listen deeply. What do they long for spiritually?
The Spirit will break in whenever and wherever the Spirit will break in.
The Kingdom of God will break in whenever and wherever it will. . .
convicting us,
convicting people beyond us, and
bringing us together,
not as we have always been,
but in new, fresh beginnings of the Spirit.
What if we began to expect that?
What if we began to see this day for what it is?
Sunday is the day of resurrection.
It is the day of resurrection life.
What if we began to live as though that message was real, trusting that we truly belong to God? What if we were commissioned to leave this place with the expectation that we will see people — really and truly, see people with value —
viewing their pain with care,
witnessing their passions and gifts,
walking alongside their joys,
and honoring their deep worth and worth.
What if this day of resurrection could transform us that deeply? And what if we began to expect it?
I bet it would transform our lives. I bet it would transform our churches. I bet it would transform our communities because we would begin to see people in new and deeper ways. Perhaps, seeing us alive, they would view us in new ways also.
This weekend, I saw an interesting article online. [1] It was by a man named Thom Rainer, who has researched congregations for more than twenty-five years. He had a challenging recognition. He said, “Stated simply, the most common factor in declining churches is an inward focus.” He is speaking about congregations which exist primarily for themselves. He is speaking about congregations which tend to spend nearly all their time and energy focusing upon themselves. The ministries are primary for the members. . . The funds of the budget are used almost exclusively to meet the needs of members. . .
I wonder if this is also connected to a congregational experience where people merely expect the routine – to hear some holy words, to say hello to some friends, and then to go home back to other routines. A congregation which exists for itself and its own routines begins to decline. Then it can easily become obsessed (as many of our churches are) with making new members, sometimes out of faithfulness, yes, but sometimes out of a motivation to increase the size of the congregation in order to meet the size of the budget. That’s where many churches are today.
But thank God, there is more. There is a deeper, fuller life which calls all of us away from an inward focus.
The Spirit will break in whenever and wherever the Spirit will break in.
The Kingdom of God will break in whenever and wherever it will. . .
So in its midst – right here in front of us today – will we come alive? Will we rejoice and praise God for the unexpected ways God continues to show up? And will we leave here ready to see and be seen – to live in our community, seeing worth and value in the lives around us? Will we?
May God invite us into this kind of resurrection life.
On Saturday, my husband Ian and I caught a few minutes of the equestrian individual jumping event at the Olympics in Rio. This isn’t an individual event entirely, of course, because it involves a horse and a rider. That makes two.
For the longest time, Ian and I had the same questions as we listened to the coverage. The commentator kept making athletic statements, sometimes using the pronoun ‘he’ and sometimes using the pronoun ‘she.’
Who is considered to be the ‘he,’ and who is considered to be the ‘she’?
-And-
Who is considered to be the athlete? The horse, the rider, or both of them?
Eventually, Ian and I let out a laugh at the same time. Though we hadn’t talked about it yet, we had been wondering these questions simultaneously. We had clearer answers once the commentator said, “She went to Stanford,” and “He loves bananas.”
That definitely cleared some things up, but as I continued to watch and reflect, it raised larger issues too:
This commentator seemed to admire the athletic prowess of the horse and the rider. But I realized that only one of them has a choice about competing. What happens to the life of the horse if he makes a permanent decision to stop jumping?
The athleticism of horse and rider are simultaneously admired, but who benefits from a win? Is the horse treated differently if he wins? When the horse ages or can’t win anymore, is he permitted to live another chapter elsewhere, or is he sold and killed?
The horse didn’t go to Stanford, yet he was considered to be an intelligent animal with some autonomy. The commentator referred to him with language we might use for a human. I wondered, why do we respect the intelligence of some animals but relegate other highly intelligent animals (pigs come to mind) to a lifetime of living in cramped cages where they can’t even move?
We love our pets, and we admire the strength of powerful animals. We enjoy safaris, and we work to conserve the habitats of some creatures around this world.
But we also support an food industry which causes endless suffering for some animals from birth to slaughter. We assume these animals have no intrinsic worth, and we keep their suffering out of view.
So horse or other animals? Who’s valued?
Perhaps we need to remove the ‘or’ and ponder these inconsistencies.
Over the last two weeks, the world has watched the performances of the U.S. women’s gymnastics team with utter awe. These gymnasts have demonstrated unbelievable strength and skill while I’ve sat on my couch as a sedentary spectator. I’ve watched their art and athleticism with my mouth wide open. As they tumble and fly through the air, one-word questions of astonishment tumble out of my mouth: “What?” “Who?” “How?” I struggle to believe that these feats are possible, yet they are happening in Rio. These gymnasts are individually remarkable, so naturally, all five of them formed a team that was virtually unbeatable.
Aly Raisman was their team captain. She is an incredible gymnast and leader. After watching it all unfold, I have concluded that Aly Raisman is the most phenomenal silver medalist imaginable.
Raisman returned to the Olympics after winning the individual all-around gold during the London games in 2012. This year, it seemed that a repeat win was unlikely. Simone Biles entered the competition highly favored, and she did not disappoint.
But when I watched Aly Raisman perform her floor exercise routine, I was equally impressed. It became clear that any other year, she would surely win the gold medal herself. Watch her opening tumbling pass here. It’s incredible.
Silver medalists can have it tough. A number of studies have demonstrated that bronze medalists are often happier silver medalists. Bronze medalists consider their alternative and realize they might not have had a place on the podium. Sliver medalists consider their alternative and realize they could have won the gold. This recognition can be painful.
In the midst of this, I have great admiration for Aly Raisman. She is strong, skilled, and immensely talented. In a year when Simone Biles could not be beaten, Raisman was graceful and generous. That relational posture demonstrates power and leadership. She and Biles have even become close friends. We watched them hold hands during competitions, support each other between their routines, and laugh hard together during NBC interviews.
Aly Raisman is phenomenal. She has showed us that second place can also demonstrate tremendous leadership.
Smuggling Grace 
