Some haunting questions linger as the nation grieves, rages, and protests over the death of Alton Sterling at the hands of Louisiana police officers. . .
Alton Sterling may have seen the videos of Eric Garner and Walter Scott when they were killed by police officers and wondered, “What if that was me. . .?”
And then it was.
Certainly, Alton Sterling knew of Michael Brown, Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice, Renisha McBride, and Freddie Gray. Perhaps, with horror yet with empathy, there were moments when he wondered, “What if that was my family. . .?”
And then it was.
This is what many people of color are wondering all across our nation today: Will that someday be me or my family?
In light of this lingering, traumatic question, I wonder. . .
When will we finally create a nation where “No,” could actually be trusted as an answer?
When will we finally create a nation where “No more!” drowns out any cry of “No, he deserved it because [insert manipulative spin]?”
When will we finally create a nation where “No, I didn’t do anything wrong,” is treated with respect for civil liberties instead of an escalated “No, you’ll do what I say. . .”?
Until our voices resound with the right kind of NO,
Until our
minds,
hearts,
spirits, and
bodies resound with that kind of NO,
No change will ever come.
This sermon was preached at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan and was focused upon Mark 1:40-45. The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
Mark 1:40-45
A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, ‘If you choose, you can make me clean.’ Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’ Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was made clean. After sternly warning him he sent him away at once, saying to him, ‘See that you say nothing to anyone; but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them.’ But he went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly, but stayed out in the country; and people came to him from every quarter.
This little story at the beginning of Mark’s gospel is completely shocking. And it’s more than shocking. It’s scandalous. This is how Jesus chooses to begin his ministry in Galilee. . .
When Mark starts his Gospel, he hits the ground running. There’s no birth story here. It’s almost like there’s no time for it. Mark starts out full speed ahead. And so much happens in this first chapter. It almost like Mark is capturing little snapshots and piecing them together for us in flashes, like some trailer for an action film. He strings these small stories together with words that become characteristic for him. This story – “and” — This story – “and” – This story. “And, and, and.” “Immediately” this. “Immediately” that. Mark uses the word “Immediately” over and over in his writing.
So much happens in this first chapter!
The Gospel of Mark starts out this way:
“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”
Then we’re off.
John the Baptist appears in the wilderness, baptizing. Three verses about John baptizing Jesus. Immediately the Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness. Two verses about his temptation there. Jesus calls his first disciples. And Jesus stuns a synagogue of people when he casts out an unclean spirit from a man. “What is this?” they say. “A new teaching – with authority!” And immediately, Jesus heals Peter’s mother-in-law from her fever right after they leave the synagogue. And then the whole city gathers around her door, asking Jesus to heal people of their diseases. And then Jesus goes on a preaching tour, doing the same type of work all around Galilee.
All of this is in one chapter! What’s going on here? Mark starts out building Jesus up in this amazing way. “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” A baptism. Healing. New authority! A city at a door! Jesus’ reputation is building. . . and then, WHAT?
Jesus has an encounter with. . . a leper?
Wait a second. . .Mark, this is really where you want to throw this story in? Right here? Just when you were building up Jesus in every way? Really?
Now granted, Mark didn’t put chapter numbers and verses in his gospel. The early church eventually did that. But Mark puts this story right at the beginning – right after a huge string of stories that give Jesus an immense amount of credibility. And then, this story — this scandalous story.
A leper approaches Jesus and falls on his knees begging. This is scandalous in itself. A leper was someone who could have had a variety of skin diseases that were considered to be unclean by Levitical law. According to the law, people with leprous diseases were supposed to wear torn clothes, keep their hair disheveled, cover their upper lips and cry out everywhere, “Unclean! Unclean!” They had to announce their own condition everywhere. They were seen and known only through this label. Lepers were supposed to live alone, and they were supposed to stay outside the camp or city.
So what gave this leper the audacity to approach Jesus? Who did he think he was? Or maybe a better question is this: “Who did he think Jesus was?”
“If you choose, you can make me clean.”
Here was this outsider – an outcast – on his knees, kneeling and begging. He must have been trembling there, terrified. He had approached Jesus when he was supposed to remain as far as possible from him. And this was more than a simple break of the rules. He could defile Jesus! He was ritually unclean, and at any point, if he contacted Jesus, he would make Jesus unclean too. He could damage him. He could ruin an entire preaching tour.
But he had audacity because he had faith. He must have known that there was something different about Jesus. “If you choose, you can make me clean.”
And Jesus was different. He was moved with compassion. The word used in the Greek text says that his compassion was bodily. He was gut-wrenched about this. And perhaps he was angry about it too. Why did this man have to be constantly overlooked, living with continual stigma, isolated from his family – from the entire faith community – when he too was a Child of God?
Then Jesus does what is shocking. He does what is utterly scandalous. Willingly, he chooses to touch this man – this man with leprosy. “I do choose. Be made clean!” Jesus has broken the social custom of his day. He’s obliterated it. He’s touched the one who was labeled and stigmatized to be untouchable.
And there’s that word of Mark’s again: “Immediately,” the leprosy left him, and he was made clean. But things hadn’t returned to back to some simple state. In one touch, Jesus and this man with leprosy have exchanged places. The healed man goes into the open – into the city where he has been previously forbidden with new life and newfound freedom. And because he spreads the word about his new life, Jesus can no longer enter a town openly. He stays out in the desert places, and because of the word of this leper, people come to Jesus from every corner to join him there. Jesus is on the outside now, among desperate people. In one willful touch, Jesus has chosen to become a leper.[1]
Who is this Jesus? Who is this One who goes against the social norms if it will restore people to true worth and dignity? Who is this Jesus that Mark is portraying – this One who goes on to do so many scandalous things in this Gospel – telling a paralyzed man that his sins have been forgiven, no matter the rage of the others who witness it? Who is this one that heals on the Sabbath – who time and time again, puts human need first? Who is this one who continues to be touched by the ritually unclean – a woman who has been bleeding for twelve years, longing to only touch his garment and be healed? Who is this Jesus who eats with tax collectors and sinners? Who is this Jesus who chooses common fishermen to follow him – who chooses 1st century women to be disciples? Who is this Jesus who says, “Let the children come to me?” Who is this one who is constantly, willfully choosing to break our every social custom to serve human need and dignity first? Jesus is one who transgresses what is expected. Jesus, who did not sin toward God, constantly moves against what our society tells us is the norm. Jesus is a healer. Jesus is a Transgressive Healer.[2]
What would it take for us to do the same? What would we risk to become the healers we are? Here we are, together on a simple, routine Sunday. Some of us may be relatively new to this place. Others of us have known the members and friends of this congregation for decades. When we are gathered together on Sundays, we are often among the dearest people of our lives. Have you ever considered that friendship is a gift that can change the world? What happens when we show up in the lives of others to be with them in their darkest hours – to know their gifts and their beautiful qualities, yes – but also to know the most painful and difficult aspects of their lives? What happens? How does the human presence of friendship change the world?
And what happens when the love of friendship spreads beyond itself to include those who are on the margins of society?
What would happen if we did that? In light of this shocking story that we’ve heard today – in light of this scandalous and Transgressive Healer Jesus — may this be true: May the ‘yes’ between us say ‘yes’ to a world beyond us. May the ‘love’ between us say ‘love’ to a world beyond us.[3]
We’re called to be healers. We are called to be healers in this world, not necessarily because there’s anything extraordinary about us, but because we belong to a Divine Healer of this world who enters our pain, suffering, and stigma. We follow a Divine Healer who is so very Human. He chooses our condition. And this is the One we follow.
Who are the lepers of our modern day culture? Who is being told day-in and day-out that they belong on the outside? Immigrants? Refugees? Undocumented workers? People who are Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer? People who don’t know where their next meal is coming from? People with a skin-color that society defines as unacceptable? People with terminal illnesses? People who live alone and who are desperately lonely? People with mental illnesses? People with stigmatizing disabilities? Children who are abused and neglected? Young people in the foster care system? Muslims who are feared and stereotyped in this country?
You are ministers, and Jesus Christ, the Transgressive Healer, dwells in you. May the ‘yes’ between us say ‘yes’ to a world beyond us. May the ‘love’ between us say ‘love’ to a world beyond us.
May your friendships invite you to live as the healers you are. Thanks be to God. Amen.
3 I was grateful to first hear this language in a wedding sermon given by the Rev. Ben Johnston-Krase, co-planter of Farm Church in Durham, North Carolina.
This morning, I had the privilege to speak at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan. This community has one of the most beautiful, inclusive visions of church I have seen. I’m grateful for the ways this community practices justice and welcomes people so wholeheartedly.
At their request, this address shared some of the unfolding story of Michigan Nones and Dones. This community is meetup group on Meetup.com and was started in Southeast Michigan eight months ago.
March 25, 2012 was a beautiful, important day in my life.
On that day, I stood at the back of a church sanctuary and waited for a worship service to begin. I watched people enter, and I smiled in their direction. I loved these people deeply. This day was important in my wider community too. Beloved people walked into a sanctuary in Austin, Texas and sat down. Together, we waited for a service to start.
Some worship leaders stood at the back of the sanctuary with me. We had all prayed about twenty minutes ago, getting ready for this service. But suddenly, I noticed that one person was missing.
I was curious, “Where could he be?”
At this point, the organ prelude started. After waiting a few minutes, we walked forward to light a candle. Other worship leaders walked in with me too, and we sat down at the front. We started my ordination service without the preacher of the day.
He was missing, and we couldn’t find him. The service continued with words of welcome and a prayer of confession. At one point, someone went out to find him. All of this was puzzling because he had been with us when we prayed before the service. Finally, during the Passing of the Peace [i.e. the greeting time] he walked up to me and apologized profusely. Not long after that, it was time to give his sermon. As he began, he launched into a hilarious apology:
“Well, I’m sad to start this moment off with an apology. . . I’ve been looking forward to day for months, and somehow, back in December, I had it in mind that we started at 3:00.”
(We started at 2:30).
“I’m glad I wasn’t clear across the campus right now. Rather, I was sitting in my old office, just sitting there. And I came out and heard music. I thought, ‘Oh, they’re running through one of the hymns. I don’t think they run through hymns in this church.’”
Everyone laughed.
“This is like a pastor’s anxiety dream! The service starts and you’re nowhere to be found.” He held up the manuscript of the sermon and said, “I do have the sermon. It’s right here!” We laughed some more.
Soon after, he read this story from Numbers.
Though completely unintentional, his late arrival was not lost on us. This story is about elders who had been invited to the Tent of Meeting for an ordination. God sought to place the Spirit on seventy leaders, but two of them missed it. Eldad and Medad stayed behind. They were late.
Our ordination preacher was late too, but on that day, he shared one of the most convicting sermons I’ve ever heard. He ordained me and commissioned everyone to a particular way of living. He invited us to seek God’s Spirit in the camp.
He challenged us to find God’s Spirit in places beyond our expectations .
He challenged us to find God’s Spirit beyond our church institutions.
In this story, Moses had been leading the people with great challenge. They were wandering in the desert. . .They were in transition from slavery to a future they could not know fully. They were hungry, and they missed certain aspects of their life in Egypt. They complained. We can hardly blame them.
I try to imagine what this must have been like for Moses. He mentions that he is leading more than 600,000 people on foot. He can’t bear the burden alone. So God says, “You’re right. You can’t bear the burden alone. Call to me 70 elders, and I will put some of the Spirit that is on you, and place it on them so that you don’t have to bear this all alone.”
So soon after, Moses and the elders they went to the Tent of Meeting. It’s important to lift up what an important day this was. Not just anyone could go inside the Tent of Meeting. This place was associated with God’s own presence. You would think that when they received the invitation, Eldad and Medad would have shown up on time.
But they didn’t. And yet, something miraculous happened. Eldad and Medad, outside of the expected place for the arrival of God’s Spirit, stayed among the people. They were with the average folks in the camp, and the Spirit of God rested on them too. The elders inside that tent prophesied on that day. But so did these two. . . these two people who never showed up in the tent. . .God’s presence and Spirit was among them and with them. God is truly with the people.
And thank God.
The Spirit will rest where the Spirit will rest.
God goes beyond us.
God beckons us into new places.
This last week, I attended the 222nd General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA). Collectively, we know we are entering a time of great, religious change in our world. We are experiencing change in our local congregations. We are seeing change within our larger denomination. We are watching what are some are calling a New Reformation in the wider Church. For some, I know that these changes can feel daunting. They can bring up anxieties at times. All of that is understandable.
But I also believe that God is at work, doing something new. God is at work in these changes. We know that many of these changes are connected to shifts in religious demographics. With that in mind, I’d like to tell you a story about something I am learning. These days, I am growing in new ways as we ponder these shifts.
Back in October, I suddenly had an idea.
I wondered, “What would happen if we started a Meetup Group for Nones and Dones?” ‘Nones’ and ‘Dones’ are buzzwords right now in the sociology of religion. By Nones, I don’t mean Roman Catholic Nuns, but N-O-N-E-S, people who are religiously unaffiliated. There are also Dones out there – people who have left established, religious institutions behind, most often Christians who have left churches for one reason or another. I wondered, what would happen if we brought these groups together to talk about spirituality, life, the teachings of Jesus, and our personal experiences? What would happen if we came together?
So I went to Meetup.com, an online platform where people can search for interest groups in their geographical region. People can make profiles for those groups and RSVP to meet people in person. I created a meetup group called Michigan Nones and Dones and described it as a community for people who are “spiritually curious but institutionally suspicious.”
I believe God is up to something in this vision. It has become much more than an idea that popped in my brain. It is now a community – one I never expected.
People started joining. They made online profiles and began showing up in person in restaurants and coffee shops. The first time we met, we were at Cottage Inn on William Street in Ann Arbor. We didn’t have a huge group. It was just five people there. But two of them had driven from an hour away to come to this. I thought, “Oh, this must be meeting a need, perhaps larger than I realized.”
Then, as we entered 2016, this community had a really powerful moment in January. We were at Sweetwater Coffee and Tea in Ypsilanti. On that day, most people were meeting each other for the very first time. I opened our conversation by describing our group:
This is a community for Nones, people who are religiously unaffiliated —
Atheists,
Agnostics,
People who are ‘spiritual but not religious,’
People who don’t claim any tradition in particular,
People who blend various religious traditions and practices
and
This is a community for Dones, people who have maintained a religious identity –
many of them Christian,
but have left established, institutional communities, like churches for one reason or another.
I described that this is a welcome place for anyone and everyone –
People who fit these descriptors, and
People for whom these descriptors might not apply.
After opening with that, I asked one simple question. In fact, I thought this was going to be the most surface question of the day, but it transformed everything. I said, “How about if we introduce ourselves? Would you tell us your name, and then, do you identify as a None, a Done, something in-between, or something else?” That seemed to cover the gamut.
In that simple question, something magical happened: One by one for an hour and a half every single person around that corner told their story of faith and spirituality. They told these stories in detail. They talked about some of the highest and most hopeful moments in their life journeys. They talked about some of the most painful experiences they had known in churches and other religious organizations.
And though some of that content was very heavy, the room did not feel heavy all. It felt like a great release had happened, and we were suddenly connected on this deep level.
My friends, God is up to something in that!
The Spirit will rest where the Spirit will rest. And that often means beyond us – beyond these institutions and these walls that we have created in our churches. God is out there in the camp too – in Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, Saline, Chelsea, and Detroit.
God is at work inside our churches, and
God is also at work beyond them.
On that day, I realized that people are ready to tell their stories. Some people simply do not feel comfortable in the walls we have created. Tragically, some of our sanctuary walls have been used in ways that box in and exclude.
People are so ready to talk about their experiences if we will sincerely ask them and respect who they are. Many are ready to share if we will go to them and listen among them.
I think we’re called to way of living.
The Church with a capital C is called to that experience – to go out and speak the good news we have known, yes, but also to listen closely, because there are Eldads and Medads out there who are ready to prophesy to us with their own life experiences. They have forms of spirituality which undergird their lives, and often times, the Church needs their voice of critique and hope.
These voices are valuable. They’re valuable to God, and they’re valuable to us. So Michigan Nones and Dones continues to meet and listen. These beloved people we are meeting have great wisdom to share.
At the General Assembly, Presbyterians elected a new Stated Clerk this week. His name is the Rev. Dr. J Herbert Nelson, and he is the first African-American Stated Clerk of our denomination. What a powerful, beloved human being he is. . . J Herbert Nelson has worked tirelessly for justice in faithful ways his whole life, and I think he will lead us to wonderful places. During the General Assembly, he said this about the church: “We are not dead. We are reforming. We are alive, and we are well.” I’m excited about that.
I think part of this reformation process includes voices of the Nones and the Dones –
the Eldads and the Medads,
the people in the camp. . .
God is bringing us together in our neighborhoods to change all of us.
So I think we can chase this kind of vision. We can expect God’s Spirit around every corner.
And to close, I want to bring this full circle. As we think about ordination, I want to remind everyone at Northside Presbyterian Church that we’ve all been ordained to this kind of life. Oh sure, some of us have been ordained as elders or deacons, but I’m not even talking about those kinds of ordination.
I’m talking about baptism.
That’s an ordination we all share. Every one of us in this room has been called and commissioned to an entire lifetime of finding God’s Spirit –
pointing to it,
learning from it,
growing through it,
being alive. . .
And so I would say to each one of us today – we who have been baptized into this way of life – go forward form this place today into these neighborhoods,
because you have a message to share,
and you have a love to give.
And you also have ears and hearts to listen,
to ask those questions,
to live those culminating moments,
to celebrate those convening breakthroughs
when we hear God’s Spirit at work,
not only within us, not only among us, but also beyond us.
Hello, dear friends. I am pleased to say that my Presbyterian tradition and my absolute love for all things Portlandia are intersecting this week. I am in Portland for the next seven days to attend the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).
General Assembly happens every two years and is an occasion when thousands of Presbyterians come to a convention center and make major decisions together. The process is both passionate and parliamentarian. It feels like a family reunion and forges its own twitterverse of opinions, connections, and inside jokes.
I’m thrilled to be here. While here, I have several priorities: I will blog and tweet about events, write for an online journal, and hold conversations with leaders who are forming new worshiping communities in our denomination. I expect to learn a lot and connect deeply.
So, here’s a fair warning: For about a week, this blog will become very Presbyterian-specific. But Presbyterians care about our neighbors and justice in the world too, so this isn’t ultimately an insular experience.
Yet in all honesty, at times, this is about to get very Presbydorky. Just letting you know.
As a case in point, I would like to offer today an excellent video that was crafted by the Revs. John and Krystal Leedy.
In the aftermath of the horrific mass shooting and large scale loss of life in Orlando, Donald Trump quickly took the stage on behalf of his campaign and called once again for a total immigration ban of Muslims into the United States. He said the U.S. must suspend immigration from areas of the world where there is “a proven history of terrorism.”
Donald Trump may have forgotten that his words can also terrorize as they incite and mobilize fear. Or perhaps he hasn’t forgotten at all.
Perhaps that is precisely his campaign strategy.
Perhaps he is quite aware of its efficacy.
We must ask these questions of ourselves:
What will Donald Trump’s rhetoric do to us? What will it incite and mobilize in Americans?
Inaccurate and irresponsible language behind these debates can easily ignite a culture of Islamophobia and violence against Muslims in the U.S. and around the world.
Donald Trump says his proposed immigration ban will be temporary “until our country’s representatives can figure out what is going on.”I shudder to think what his conclusion would be to that inquiry.
Since Donald Trump is already scapegoating Muslim immigrants and speaking information that is blatantly false (for instance, saying publicly that the Orlando shooter was “born an Afghan” while he was a lifelong U.S. citizen) I do not have confidence that Donald Trump would accurately assess ‘what is going on,’ nor that he would address challenges without incendiary language toward exclusion and violence.
Yes, I shudder to imagine Donald Trump’s conclusion to ‘what is going on.’
I fear the ways this rhetoric can radicalize us.
Do we really think we are incapable of mass violence ourselves? Are we unwilling to recognize the ways we commit violence in this nation and around the world in the name of our fears and mistrust? Can we deny that too often in our history we have sought to dominate others and abuse power? Will we recognize that any religion or national ideology can serve as the platform for radicalized violence?
We have opened the door to this language.
How will it affect our world?
As we know, we are living a deep and devastating week together. The last few days have felt quite heavy. Our nation and local communities are grappling with deep grief and pain after the violence and losses at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida.
In times of national sorrow, we feel pain, anger, numbness, and confusion. We also feel a sense of powerlessness as an ever-pressing question resounds within our minds and hearts:
What can we do?
In the days and months ahead, we will answer that question with action, empathy, solidarity, and change. We must work for all of these. We must. and
When that question arrives and lingers,
When it presses — What can we do? —
We can live an immediate answer
that is simple yet fiercely powerful: We can see and be seen.
This happened last night in Ann Arbor, Michigan on a large scale. In fact, it was nothing short of miraculous.
In the wake of our aching, national pain –
in the loss of particular human lives,
in the loss of a sense of safety,
especially for our LGBTQ friends —
Ann Arbor showed up last night on behalf of Orlando.
In only 48 hours, four organizers and an entire town of people came together to sing, play, and witness an impromptu performance of Mozart’s Requiem in memory and honor of victims in Orlando. Leaders of the LGBTQ community, local clergy, and city and university leaders also spoke powerfully with messages that were convicting, vulnerable, authentic, and loving.
Last night, we saw our transgender, bisexual, gay, lesbian, and queer friends and neighbors with meaning and value.
Last night, we saw our community stand alive with hope and power for change.
It begins with seeing and being seen.
It continues with the same,
when we live generously and act forcefully on behalf of
people we have seen and known,
people with worth and value.
So I want to thank Austin Stewart, Arianne Abela, Kevin Fitzgerald, and Colin Knapp —
four powerhouse musicians, friends, and advocates who organized an entire Requiem in 48 hours. It was nothing short of a miracle.
I want to thank Alaina Brown, Ashley Dixon, George Shirley, and Stephen West who served as soloists in the Requiem.
I want to thank all singers and orchestra members who arrived to perform this music with depth, sensitivity, and power.
I want to thank First United Methodist Church for holding the rehearsal.
I want to thank the UMS Choral Union and First Presbyterian Church for providing musical scores which allowed heartfelt emotions to translate written music into great meaning.
I want to thank Jim Toy, Austin Stewart, Aaron Dworkin, Chris Taylor, and Mark Schlissel for their opening words which inspired us.
I want to thank a number of local clergy and religious leaders who shared closing words and sent us forward with more reflections.
And I want to thank the entire city of Ann Arbor and members of other communities who joined us last night. It was astounding to see so many people standing together in Hill Auditorium. This city heard the performance and will carry the meaning forward.
To close, this moment remains on my mind:
Last night, I had the privilege to sing next to Arianne Abela, one of last night’s organizers. Before the concert began, she and I both had tears in our eyes, marveling at the vast number of people in the audience, aware that this number had arrived with only two days notice. We realized that the audience was probably thinking the very same thing about us as they saw the number of musicians standing on stage. More than 300 musicians were facing them.
Together, we thought about that. . . musicians and audience members marveling simultaneously about the presence of one other. . . That’s when we said,
We have lost entire worlds today.
We have lost a universe of sacred lives and loves.
The Talmud says it this way:
“Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.”
Perhaps we feel we are losing our breath and even our words to describe today’s horrific and enraging news. In the early hours of the morning, entire worlds faced great violence.
At this moment, we know a particular set of numbers which begins to express some form of what happened – numbers of those who have died and those who are wounded. But the numbers can’t possibly express the loss. Those numbers represent neighbors, friends, siblings, children, partners, coworkers, heroes – sacred human lives with names, identities, stories, and personalities. Each one, particular. Each one, an entire world.
And in the wake of this news, more souls – whole worlds full – are wounded by the trauma of it all, feeling the grief of the countless connections that cannot accurately be enumerated.
We have lost entire worlds today.
We have lost a universe of sacred lives and loves.
Perhaps we feel we are losing our breath and even our words to describe today’s horrific and enraging news.
And. . .
It makes me wonder what kind of universe we want to live in.
It makes me wonder what world we will fight for.
[Photo Credit: Dougal Waters and Paul Taylor via Getty Images]
Last week, I stumbled upon an article that was fierce in its truth telling. Its words brought home a crucial point we need to hear: Wellness is not the answer to our overwork. That is, it isn’t the answer alone.
The only cure for overwork is to stop working.
We live in a culture fueled by a growing insatiability for greater profits and production. As such, we are working longer hours than ever before with pressures for constant availability, and there are fewer days off. But if we want individuals and communities to be truly healthy — including our sense of teamwork at work — we actually have to work less, and we actually have to make that commitment a priority.
Zoë Krupka brings this home in the article I mention: No, it’s not you: Why ‘Wellness’ Isn’t the Answer to Overwork. Krupka is concerned that we run this rat race of overwork continuously, thinking that a little meditation, yoga, or exercise will be able to keep its effects at bay. Physical and spiritual practices of wellness are truly great for us, but over time, the cumulative effects of overwork do harm our bodies, mental health, and relationships.
We have limits, and
We actually have to stop working.
And let’s get honest: There can be a cost to honoring this commitment. In the article, Krupka mentions stories of clients she counsels in therapy. Her clients are hard workers who gave their best efforts, but their work was never perceived to be enough in their workplace culture. In one company, all people were told if they do not perform at 150% capacity of their position descriptions, they are not pulling their weight.
It takes courage to assert human needs for limits and balance. It can even get you disciplined or fired. Without question, that feels scary, and even more so when we have financial needs, family members who depend on us, or a desire to progress in our careers. But do we really want to work in a cultures that thrive on this kind of fear? When we’re working 60, 70, and 80 hour weeks consistently, even when we’re meeting the goals, those fears can still hang over our heads. No amount of work seems to keep them at bay.
And sadly, the great irony is this: More and more, studies are showing that productivity is significantly higher with fewer hours. Productivity drops after 50 hours, and it falls off a cliff beyond 55. We are working harder and losing more of our lives for less productivity.
We all want to work hard and do our best. Above all, we want to work in ways that add meaning, creativity, worth, and purpose. But when we feel like we’re losing our life to work — losing time with family, depriving ourselves of friendships, always rushing, and continually feeling the pressures of the impostor’s syndrome — is it really worth it?
We have to stop, and
We have to change our relationship to work itself.
Dr. Cynthia Rigby, one of my professors in seminary, talks about this, and I love her language for it. She says that often, we think we need a bit of recreation to refuel us with more energy to jump back into the rat race. Instead, she said, we need Sabbath and play to help us change our relationship to the rat race itself — not mere recreation but re-creation.
As an addendum, I also love this quote from Barbara Brown Taylor:
“At least one day in every seven, pull off the road and park the car in the garage. Close the door to the tool shed and turn off the computer. Stay home, not because you are sick, but because you are well. Talk someone you love into being well with you. Take a nap, a walk, an hour for lunch. Test the premise that you are worth more than you can produce–that even if you spent one whole day of being good for nothing, you would still be precious in God’s sight. And when you get anxious because you are convinced that this is not so–remember that your own conviction is not required. This is a commandment. Your worth has already been established, even when you are not working. The purpose of the commandment is to woo you to the same truth.”
I’m so grateful that abby mohaupt is sharing with us today as a guest blogger on Smuggling Grace. abby carved out an intentional season to try impossible things, and powerful stories have emerged. You are invited you to read the photo captions as part of the rest of the text.
It started on Easter. My partner and I went to celebrate the miraculous resurrection of Jesus with a local church in the morning, and in the afternoon, we released the ashes of our recently deceased sweet cat into the ocean.
I watched the waves carry her out into the open, and it felt like we’d done the impossible, letting go.
I remembered my years as a pastor preaching and teaching on Easter, claiming that this pivotal day in our Christian calendar is God’s promise that the impossibility of life is conquering death
–that death does not have the final say. The impossible is possible.
As Christians, we’re called to believe the impossible. I began to wonder if we’re also called to live the impossible. What might it be like to do impossible things between Easter and Pentecost? How would I change?
I started out wanting to do an impossible thing every day.
I had hard conversations with people… entering into dialogues which were vulnerable and honest. I tried to be unafraid. I worried that I would come across as angry or negative, instead of clear. After a couple of these conversations, I realized that these hard conversations weren’t impossible, just hard.
In the meantime, I deepened relationships with several colleagues and friends over conversations and explorations that we otherwise wouldn’t have had together. (Also, I learned to say “you are driving me crazy” in a life-giving way, and I learned to stand up for myself more than once.)
And after a couple more, they just felt real.
I pushed myself physically too, looking for joy while I run… and being more mindful about who I am in the world, and coming up with impossible goals for exercise. The more I ran, the more joy I found. And one week I took 100k steps in five days. The second time I did that particular impossible thing, it was easier, and I realized that I was conditioning myself—that the more I did the impossible, the easier it became.
I began to think I was in training for a big impossible thing. And it became less important that I did an impossible thing every day… and more important that I keep an eye out for the opportunity to try.
As my impossible muscles stretched and moved, I thought about perspective and power and possibility. When I was in Washington, DC, it was painfully obvious that a lot of what I do on a regular basis (fly across the country, for example) is impossible for so many people. I felt like my brain was being trained to think outside of my own experience… to re-think exactly what I mean by the impossible.
And I wondered if God is God and I am not, who am I to do the impossible?
Still, I thought a little about my capacity to do the impossible. And there were still things I couldn’t do (like yell at a white male staffer in DC who was totally rude to my African American BFF or plan to bring my sister-by-choice to the San Diego Zoo to see the pandas because it could jeopardize her immigration papers). But my power and privilege changes my sense of those limitations and my capacity to exercise my ability to do the impossible.
Later I discovered what I thought was going to be the biggest impossible thing. In April, I accepted a spot in a PhD program Drew University, which means I’ll leave a job I love working with people I love. To do this, I’ll move across the country, away from my partner and start something new. It felt scary but also exciting… and like I was crossing the finish line at my first half marathon. And just like a marathon finish—it feels a little less impossible now that it’s done.
Weeks later, after a few more hard conversations and refusing to work on my days off, on one of my long runs, I began to think.
I realized that more than a decade I’ve spent trying to forgive one person in my life and the last two years trying to forgive another two people—
I spent a few miles thinking about how my inability to forgive that old hurt had let the new hurt emerge. But that old hurt was huge—it changed the course of my life and changed almost all the relationships in my life at the time. That old hurt welled up in me, with anger and fear and hopelessness.
And at point on that run, I said to myself, “I think forgiving this person is impossible.”
I stopped midstride.
Impossible was the point of this season of my life.
I started to think about what it would mean to forgive and what and who I really needed to forgive. And I began to think about where that forgiveness needed to take place.
And so I found myself back at the ocean.
On the way home from that trip to the sea, I thought about how far I’d come since Easter. I thought about how little I understood about the impossibility of Easter before I tried to do the impossible.
And then suddenly, from the shadows of some memory, came a passage from “Through the Looking Glass” by Lewis Carrol:
“Alice laughed: “There’s no use trying,” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen.
“When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
Believing in and practicing the impossible takes practice. When we try the impossible little things, we prepare ourselves for the great big impossible things we can’t imagine. And I can’t wait for that next impossible thing.
-Abby Mohaupt
abby mohaupt is a teaching elder in the pcusa. she loves coffee, long distance running, and jesus. she keeps a bag of crayons in her bag at all times. sometimes she blogs at www.featheology.org
In the season of Pentecost, I am creating blog series that spotlights individuals, communities, organizations, and churches that are pursuing creative, new ideas.
For a year and a half, my husband and I have had a sweet relationship with one particular, wild cottontail rabbit. It all started in January 2015 when she decided to move in with us.
We lived inside alone, of course, but she took shelter under our deck outside. She made it her home that entire winter. When spring arrived and the snow melted, we noticed that she loved to rest under our rose of sharon bush. For this reason, we named her Rosa. And from that moment onward, we’ve absolutely delighted in our special yard bunny.
Throughout the spring, summer, and most of the fall, Rosa was always around. Sometimes, she was in the front yard, but most frequently, she stayed in the backyard near her rose of sharon bush where she would nibble on grass and eat her fill. We enjoyed watching her hop to and fro, and Ian even grew an entire clover garden just for her.
All of this attention might seem excessive, I suppose, but we have thoroughly enjoyed having Rosa as a neighbor. And why not? Why not delight in this little creature and grow fond of her as she grows (and eats our grass which always grows. . .)? Why not have a special love for her?
Others joined in too. Last year, throughout her stay, Rosa became a Facebook character. I posted photos from time to time and shared what she was doing. Then when I ran into friends and acquaintances around town or at the grocery store, folks would occasionally ask about her by name. “How’s Rosa these days?”
At some point in the fall, Rosa scampered off for a while. We missed her but blessed her on her way. But this spring, something wonderful happened.
Rosa came back.
At first, for our own enjoyment, we decided she was the “same bunny.” But not long after she arrived, we spotted her nesting in the very same place she did the year before. Then we learned that wild cottontail rabbits are pretty territorial in their homemaking. This was really our yard bunny, back for another season.
So we’re back to delighting in her.
This is what I have learned from Rosa, our yard bunny:
Rosa inhabits a delight that is larger than she knows. Rosa hasn’t done anything to make us love or enjoy her, and if she leaves, we won’t love or enjoy her less.
The delight comes from an existence beyond her, but it’s for her. Rosa doesn’t know that we live inside a decorated house or go to work. She definitely doesn’t know about the existence of Facebook or grocery stores where people ask about her specifically. But all of this delight exists for her, and in ways larger than I can understand, I assume it affects her well.
I believe this is all true for us too.
At the center of things, a delight exists for us beyond anything we can understand fully, but it’s really for us. And who knows? Perhaps that affects us well. I like to think so.
We’re worth loving.
As the summer continues, we’ll continue to delight in Rosa, and the story is unfolding. Because. . .just a few days ago, a new little being emerged. Rosa has given us a grandbunny, and we’re already smitten.
Introducing Lita (full name, Rosalita):
We’re a bit odd in all of this, I know. But we delight well.
And they’re worth it.
Hello, dear friends. I am pleased to say that my Presbyterian tradition and my absolute love for all things Portlandia are intersecting this week. I am in Portland for the next seven days to attend the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).
Smuggling Grace 