Lovely friends, it is the day after Labor Day. We are returning back to work after a long weekend, and for many students and families, today marks the first day back to school. But let’s not lose sight of today’s truest gift: It’s TACO TUESDAY.
Last week, Marco Gutierrez of Latinos4Trump made an asinine comment on air during an interview with MSNBC. He warned that if immigration is not curbed in the United States, “you’re going to have taco trucks on every corner.” It’s painful to hear someone speak this way about his own culture. [1]
But his comment also backfired. It became an instant meme and built enthusiastic desire among people in the United States. Why, yes, it would be amazing to have tacos on every corner! The Clinton-Kaine campaign began to maximize on it as well.
Unfortunately, we don’t have taco trucks on every single corner yet, but what if we could do the next best thing? What if we could build friendships around tacos? Lots and lots of tacos?
That’s what some of us are going to do. We’re starting a two week event to build friendships over tacos. As the fall begins, we’re getting back into typical routines but starting anew. Some of us are back home after summer vacations. Some of us are heading back to universities. Some of us have kids going back to school.
Wherever we are, we might return to these routines with new hopes, desiring a deeper sense of community. We want to meet new friends and get to know others better.
So here’s what we’re inviting people to do: Treat a friend to tacos.
Is there a person you’ve wanted to get to know better for a good while now? Invite that person along for tacos.
Is there a friend or former coworker you’ve been meaning to contact for a good while? Reach out and have a delicious taco meal together.
Is there a person you’ve wanted to ask out on a date? Let this opportunity be your excuse! You can’t go wrong with free tacos.
In the midst of the hostile rhetoric during this election season, we can patronize the businesses of immigrants. We don’t have taco trucks on every corner yet (unfortunately) but together, we can do the next best thing.
[1] Gutierrez’s fuller quote was as follows: “My culture is a very dominant culture. And it’s imposing, and it’s causing problems. If you don’t do something about it, you’re going to have taco trucks on every corner.”
A good friend from Texas asked me recently, “What’s it like to live in Ann Arbor?”
Though much could be said, I started with the seasons. “Every single season is beautiful here,” I said. Even if winter feels too long, at times — my Texan friend was flummoxed that snow could stick to the ground continually for months! — it is beautiful. This town is gorgeous all year round.
But it didn’t take long for my friend to ask questions about the high-pressured culture of the University of Michigan as well. I had quite a bit to say about this too.
Ann Arbor is a high power, achievement town, and the University of Michigan drives a great deal of that culture. I admire the brilliance and inquisitiveness of the many people who live here for an academic season of their lives as they pursue degrees at all levels. Along with the faculty, students at the University of Michigan make contributions to research and innovation in more subject areas than I can easily count. It is truly impressive.
Yet along with these high levels of achievement, come high pressures to succeed and succeed continually. People internalize quite quickly that they must be the leaders and the best — that’s literally the university’s motto — and these pressures can be felt in very tangible ways, even if they aren’t always easily named. It feels as though there is an unnamed cost as well. Competition kicks in, and people ask internally, “What happens if I’m not the best? What if I fail?”
Leaders and the best certainly sounds like a motto of privilege. In many ways, it is, and I could write an entire post about that. But today, I ponder the human cost of this internalization. It’s twofold:
It can be dismissive of people who don’t have the opportunity to attend an elite, expensive university with its many academic and economic options. Many people rightly hear this motto as one of pride.
It can distort human lives from feeling whole, as if achievement is all that matters and makes a person worthwhile. After living in this town for three years, I don’t primarily experience this motto as one of pride. In its internalization, I see and hear people asking all the time, “What if I can’t measure up? What if I’ll never be enough?” These are questions of shame.
These sweeping distortions of self-image are part of the human experience, not only in Ann Arbor, but everywhere.
Whether we view ourselves through the lens of pride (“I’m better than others”) or through the lens of shame (“I’ll never be enough”) we live apart from the truth that we have sacred, intrinsic worth. We forget that we have intrinsic value apart from anything we do or achieve. Our worth and value cannot be lost even when we fail.
Here is the truth: We are beloved, finite, imperfect human beings with sacred worth – no more than that, no less than that. And we need to remind each other of that truth, both because we need it and because we need each other. We harm ourselves and others if we climb over one another, scrambling up a ladder of competition to prove our own worth and value. We need to be rooted in community and in the sacred message that we are loved, simply and fully as the ones we are.
So,
Who needs to hear this from us?
How do we need to tell ourselves?
However we might answer those questions, let’s commit to speak some truth this week.
Here is a Roederer quirk: We’ve given names to all the animals that show up regularly in our yard. I’ve written before about our sweet bunnies Rosa and Lita. But we’ve named other critters too.
Last year, two pesky groundhogs kept showing up. We named them Turnip and Spinach. (That’s what they liked to eat). This year, a younger groundhog has shown up from time to time, and we named him Son of Spinach. By the way, it is especially satisfying to yell Son of Spinach! from the house when we see him in our yard.
But of all the names we’ve assigned, perhaps my favorites belong to the hummingbirds – Janet and Doug. They’re such silly hummingbird names! Daily, these two frequent our hummingbird feeder and Rose of Sharon bushes. This morning, their presence woke me up to a realization I needed.
It’s this: That tiny piece of land behind my house is so complex and so beautiful. It takes up so little space overall, but it is an absolute miracle. I spend so much time hoping that the big picture things will be miracles — that they will provide meaning, connection, and transformation. . . that they will impact real people. . . that the way will be clear for them. And while we can all lean into this direction and participate in big picture things coming into being, none of them are up to us alone. We need others, and in my tradition, we say this is ultimately God’s work. It’s not up to us, and it’s not all about us; but in a beautiful paradox, we also participate in it fully, and it is for us.
Janet, Doug, and their precious flowers reminded me of this. The small details that surround us are absolutely complex and miraculous. And I needed to remember that. I’ve been putting a lot of pressure on myself lately. It’s easy for the best big picture narratives to be replaced by alternative, big picture posing narratives. They can feel larger than life, but they are not the spacious, life-giving directions to which we are called.
These alternative narratives can take many forms, like. . .
. . . when we become obsessed with having our life-direction all figured out
. . . when we seek to prove that we aren’t who those others said we are
. . . when we are terrified of failure
. . . when we chase money and recognition
. . . when we carry the impostor’s syndrome wherever we go
It seems that many of these alternative narratives are caught in pride or shame. Both are distortions of who we really are — beloved, finite human beings, created as miracles, who are called to participate in the big picture changes needed in our world. We are no more than that (pride), and we are no less than that (shame).
We can easily get stuck in these narratives, but sometimes, the small, miraculous details wake us up and root us. Most of all, they remind us that we need to be rooted in the source of it all. The mysterious one who created the tiny hummingbirds also created the cosmos. And us. Tiny, yet beautifully loved and significant us.
Yes, this is a mashup photo of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Waltons. These two shows may seem like an odd couple, but for the very same reason, both have been on my mind this week.
With all my heart, I love Buffy and the universe Joss Whedon created through it. The show is masterful with the use of symbols and metaphors, and over seven seasons, the character development is immense. On Sunday, I watched the series finale again. I had not seen it in years. Then I circled back to the opening and watched the very first episode too.
I couldn’t help but view the opening scenes as a grand, albeit campy, prelude to where it was all headed. The end illumined the beginning, and I was watching with that end in view.
Later in the week, I was thinking about this once more when a beautiful memory came to mind. The memory is about David, a person beloved and deeply influential in my life. When he was living through a challenging cancer diagnosis, he suddenly became obsessed with the reruns of another show: The Waltons.
We all knew we were not allowed to call David during the 9am hour. That was The Waltons hour. If we did call David, he would scold us playfully. But he was also serious. He would not talk to anyone during that hour, nor would he do anything else. It was all about The Waltons.
This morning ritual went on every weekday for about a year. Then one particular day, he watched the series finale. The final episode reveals the future directions of the main characters. It skips ahead to reveal what their lives will become.
A few weeks later, I said something like, “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” Then teasing him, I added, “But don’t worry. I won’t call during The Waltons.”
David told me he had finished the series. I assumed he would just start again at the beginning, but instead, he said, “Actually, I’m done with it. You know, I’ve been thinking about this. I needed to learn that everything would turn out alright, and that all those characters would be okay in the end. What I needed to learn most is that all of you will be alright too.”
David was speaking about his diagnosis, knowing that he would eventually leave us. He binge watched The Waltons, and with the end in view, he was comforted. He knew we would love and grieve deeply, but we would also live well.
David wasn’t merely talking about his illness alone, however. He was also talking about purpose. The word end has two meanings. It can mean finality, but it can also mean purpose or goal. Though it would indeed be painful, David needed to know our lives would continue after he was gone. But even more, he needed to know that our lives would continue in the purpose of the love we had shared with him.
I am so glad that we had that conversation. Years later, I know that he was right.
We still know that love.
We know love in our bones.
And more and more, I hope to live with that end in view.
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.
