The media photographer clicked at just the right moment.
The woman’s face is crumpled, crying out, grieving.
In fact, the use of the picture almost feels…voyeuristic.
How long will morning news shows play subdued tones, proclaiming the latest tragedy, in this case, “Special Edition: Charleston” in a way that reminds us all that every news outlet is for-profit?
The photo of the suffering black woman is an image of real emotional distress. She’s a flesh and blood person with stacks of mail and dishes.
What if imagery like this, artfully captured, reinforces a subtly subversive long-running narrative, though?
Your identity is suffering. You were made to bear the pain of your own existence.
In fact, the past couple of hundred years has held a great deal of suffering for Africans handcuffed on chains, taken to foreign soil, separated from their families, sold on auction blocks, beaten, raped, and forced to slave labor, separated from their husbands, wives, and children again, called “free” by a president but not bounty hunters, finally free but sometimes still despised, still told they weren’t good enough for water fountains or toilets or cafe counters.
And it’s my subjective view, only my personal response – you may perceive it differently than I do – but the news program’s profiteering use of this photo felt almost like the dynamic of a man muttering to his bruised wife, “this is all you’ll ever deserve. Don’t think you can do better than me.”
So a few thoughts today while our African Methodist Episcopal brothers and sisters try to regroup (Wesleyan Accent is proud to feature pieces from AME Zion voices like Dominique A. Robinson, Kelcy Steele and Otis McMillan).
The best photos the media can share during a crisis like the death of nine people in a church are the pictures of held hands, heads bowed: the images of prayer, unity, solidarity – the pieces of interviews like the one in which a woman affirmed, “in the midst of this, we want peace, we are for peace;” images that communicate a positive identity of community, resilience, peace, and worship. The photos are there if they’ll choose to use them. The media can carefully avoid crafting the narrative that it is the black community’s lot in life to suffer.
It seems 2015 is a bloody year for Christians. When I read a story about Christians gathered for a prayer and Bible study shot in cold blood, my mind races back to the men kneeling on the sand, waves sliding in and out, crying out to Jesus as their heads are cut off or they’re shot execution-style. Do not think for an instant that the evil that pulls the trigger in a Bible study at a black church is different than the evil that drives ISIS recruits to kill Christians; it is the same evil. Christians died worshiping.
It seems 2015 is the year that Wesleyan Methodist pastors and congregations need to drive across town, step across thresholds, and partner together for special shared services, projects, and worship. Nazarenes need to know where the restrooms are in A.M.E. Zion church buildings. United Methodist clergy need to know the names of local Free Methodist pastors. C.M.E. pastors need to know their way around the Wesleyan church’s website. The atmosphere of our world has changed. We have different histories, different traditions, different ways of worshiping. It doesn’t matter. We are a unique part of the Body of Christ. It’s time to pick up the phone.
Recently I took a college student with me to a Zumba class at the local Y.
“What you see may not be pretty. What happens at Zumba stays at Zumba.” This warning is necessary for all who accompany me to a workout class, given my unique combination of Lucille Ball and Miranda Hart-like skills or, more specifically, lack thereof.
Male pastors in particular, I speak to you today. I understand you might be uncomfortable visiting a primarily female workout class (though occasionally there are a few men). My advice: book a special Zumba session just for you and your staff or clergy group. It will be highly instructive, and hey, we all know the risks to personal health that ministry can inflict. You probably need to get your target heart rate up anyway.
This post isn’t so much about what pastors can learn from Zumba as what they must, and because the Venn Diagram results of clergy who sweat through Latin music dance exercise class who write yields only a small overlap, I’m here today.
1. Leaders occasionally need to put themselves in a place of following instructions in a group.
Pastors, no matter what your role or title in a local congregation, are frequently up front and on the platform. Many gatherings of pastors, who, whatever their personalities, are intrinsically in leadership positions, end up being, “all shepherds, no sheep.” Pastors are used to making decisions, bearing a weight of responsibility, and being the one who has to run things.
When I enter Zumba class, I’m not the expert in the room – to put it mildly. I’m not choosing a hobby at which I already excel (a tempting option to tired leaders). I enter the room knowing I’m not the one in charge.
What blissful relief.
You’re not the one a roomful of people is following.
But be warned.
You’re not the one a roomful of people is following.
Can you be comfortable with that? It’s a good test. You need to have some area in your life, some space in your life, where you have to be the clueless follower. You may not choose Zumba as the arena in which to practice that (though I think it’d be a great staff exercise), but you need to remind yourself of what it is to follow.
It’s also helpful to watch how someone else leads. How do they cue? Do they seem like they enjoy what they’re doing? If you find yourself frustrated, why? Is it your lack of ability to mimic them? How might people on your staff or in your congregation or district or conference feel similar?
2. Leaders occasionally need to put themselves in a place of uncomfortable marginalization.
When I enter the aerobic room at the Y, which dauntingly has two mirrored walls, I set down my water and take my place.
At the back.
The very back.
Of the hour-long class, the first 20 minutes or so I can usually follow the leader pretty well. The next 20 minutes is definitely uphill. The last 20 minutes, I’m following her in my mind, but my body doesn’t cooperate and the word “flail” comes to mind.
I deliberately place myself on the margin, but I’m in a place of marginalization nonetheless. One of my first days in Zumba I remember thinking, “and this is what it must feel like to visit a church and feel completely out of place and bewildered.” Even if you have a great “hospitality team” or “greeters,” sometimes if they’re too in-your-face it feels just as overwhelming: you want to explore at your own pace, make your own judgments.
The only way through is…doing it. Friendly faces who smile wryly between songs while getting a drink of water are helpful, but at the end of the day, you’re the only one who can do it.
It’s valuable to remember the off-kilter feeling of being on the edge, the threshold. There are participants here who are already friends, who are familiar with the music, who run half marathons and even wear Zumba shoes. Who’s on the inside and who’s on the outside?
3. Leaders occasionally need to put themselves in a place of being a minority.
Depending on the day, sometimes when I walk into the room I’m a minority, not in terms of gender or skill, but in terms of race and cultural background. The first day I realized this, a deep wistfulness washed over me.
“Why don’t more churches look like this?” I thought.
There were senior citizens and teenagers, Latina women and black women and white women, fit women and very large women, chic women and dowdy women.
All sweating together, moving to the same music, like fitness Pentecost. We were sweating enough to feel like tongues of fire were on our heads.
It’s the history of the church and the future of the church.
I so want it to be the present.
When’s the last time you picked up your keys and drove somewhere to take part in something where your culture or race might not be dominant, especially if you’re Caucasian? Do you regularly seek that out as a discipline in your life?
As I look over these three points, something strikes me, after recently visiting the site in Georgia where John and Charles Wesley spent some time.
Wesley had trouble with these things at one point in his story, as he watched from the outside as the Moravians handle crisis gracefully, as he placed himself as an outsider in Georgia with the hopes of being a missionary to Native Americans, as he had trouble getting along and following others.
All of these things helped unsettle his heart so that it could be strangely warmed (not by an hour of Zumba, according to our best church history records).
If your ministry has stalled, go to Zumba. Maybe Aldersgate will follow.
Do you remember standing tall and straight against a door jamb etched with pencil markings as a child? Was there a spot in the family home marking years of growth? Perhaps you had a growth chart, able to be folded away and moved as you relocated.
If measuring height was part of your childhood, you’ll know that feeling in your bones – the pull of muscle, joint, ligament as you pull yourself up to your fullest height without allowing your heels to leave the floor: you stretch as much as possible without actually going up on your toes. You trace former numbers – dates, heights.
How far you’ve come.
Tracking growth is fun; an odd pride results. How I’ve grown over the past year, you think. Naturally, we like to take stock. You stand, back to the wall, assured of a half an inch more height from the last time you were measured.
If only it were that easy.
One day – one very dark day, that followed on the heels of many other very dark days – I chatted with a wise old gentleman. He asked how I was doing. Sometimes, even in casual conversation, I forego trite responses and simply answer very honestly. That dark day was one of the first times I ventured into that.
With heavy eyes, heavy voice, heavy heart, I met his gaze.
“I’m discovering that sometimes we grow out – and sometimes we grow down. Growing out is more fun; it’s visible, there’s evidence, there’s fruit. But I’m learning the value of growing down – invisibly, under the surface, growing roots. I’m learning the value of not toppling in a storm. Sometimes growth is expansion; sometimes growth is not falling over when the wind blasts you.”
He held my heavy gaze and nodded slowly, knowingly, affirming what I struggled to verbalize. I felt like Yoda had just observed me slowly and painfully learning a new lesson. His expression was not without empathy for the pain of invisible growth.
Seasoned Christians seem stable because they know the enjoyment of measuring growth – but they don’t depend on those outward signs of success to affirm their character. They know who gets the most fun out of measuring growth: children…and that as much as kids mark growth with measures and comparison, their parents mark their growth not only with height but with behavior, attitudes and values: when a child becomes less selfish and more generous; when a child helps a sibling instead of impeding them; when a child shows courage and honesty instead of self-preservation. How do you measure those qualities with a yard stick?
If, for a moment, you’re “Judgment Day honest” with yourself – what do you use to measure growth in yourself and other Christians? Is it:
Being debt-free and practicing financial peace?
Salvaging your marriage in the nick of time?
Getting a promotion at work as a result of your good work ethic?
Raising kids who outwardly conform to the values with which they were raised?
Helping friends and family who are going through difficult times?
Going to a church where there aren’t just people of your race?
Even, says Jesus, the pagans do that. Which means these aren’t signs of spiritual growth; they’re signs of human maturity. They’re helpful signs, like lines marking 2 Feet, 3 Feet, 4 Feet on a charming Noah’s Ark-themed growth chart. But they’re not the real spiritual growth.
The spiritual growth is the painful, invisible growth that makes our heavenly Parent smile: the slow, costly growth that C.S. Lewis’ character Eustace experienced when Aslan had to remove his dragon scales.
But, you say in a moment of utter honesty, there’s no fun in invisible growth, in growing down rather than out; no one sees that. There’s no glory in it.
And it’s true. Growing pains don’t make the highlight reel – at least, the suburban North American highlight reel. It’s true – there’s no admiration from the neighbors when you painfully forgive your brother-in-law like there was when you paid cash for a new car. There’s no praise from your supervisor when your spouse starts homeschooling your troubled teen. There’s no Hallmark cards of appreciation arriving in the mail when you finally have some freedom from a soul-starving porn addiction.
But don’t believe for a second that there’s no glory in that.
The only glory that matters is, as one Max Lucado title points out, the applause of heaven. The only glory that matters is the praise we give the Triune God for bringing us through the storm that bent but did not break us:
Here I raise mine Ebenezer
Hither by Thy help I’ve come
And I hope – by Thy good pleasure –
Safely to arrive at home…
Hither by thy help I’ve come: here by your great help I’ve come.
What a measurement that is: not my self-aware growth, but rather how far God’s grace has brought me.
Why is invisible growth so important? It is vital for living in a world of storms, that rocks and quakes with evil. Analyzing a growth chart can’t sustain us when the rug is pulled out from under us. Where’s the significance in a promotion when the love of your life is dying from cancer? Where’s the glory in delivering a casserole to a friend when a black academic is body-slammed to the ground for jaywalking? Where’s the joy of being debt-free when your teenager disappears for days at a time and returns in a dazed high?
A woman graciously endures dehumanizing racism: here I raise my Ebenezer…
A lonely single man spends his vacation on a medical mission trip: hither by thy help I’ve come…
A sister holds her junkie brother in her arms, praying words of healing and victory into his ears: and I hope – by thy good pleasure…
A pastor forgives soul-crushing wounds inflicted a decade earlier: safely to arrive at home.
I find myself walking in the semi-dark, friends clustered around me. Our hands are full, carrying materials to preserve a corpse.
It was a long Sabbath. We were supposed to rest, so we did. But there’s no rest from thoughts of despair and grief. They follow you into every room you enter.
Like we had followed Him. We saw the miracles – the joy in strangers’ faces when Jesus spoke them well, or touched them, or called them out of tombs.
Now I’m walking to a tomb. The sun is mocking me. It sets, it rises. He’s dead. Others may say he spoke blasphemy, claiming to be God. Maybe they didn’t have loved ones who had been blind and who could see the sunrise now. But we saw them kill Jesus, and we all stumbled as the earth shook when he died, like the universe itself was responding to what happened. Someone said there was damage in the temple. The earthquake shook some tombs open.
And now we’re walking. It feels like there’s been nothing but loss and evil at play for the past few days. What can we do? We weren’t the one calling a dead man out of a tomb; that was him.
I shift my spices. We’re getting nearer, and I feel the dread of anticipation ripple through the group. We want to do this for Jesus; there’s so little we’ve been able to do the past few days, and sitting through the Sabbath gave little outlet for grief.
We can’t heal his body the way he healed so many, but we can honor it. I saw where the wealthy man buried him. He began the care. We’re here to continue it. It’s all we have left.
I lead the others through the garden. We’re close now and I’m hearing birds when the earth begins to shake again. Again? I’m on my hands and knees again for the second time in three days. The myrrh is dropped and I smell it’s strong scent while my eyes are squeezed shut, waiting for the shaking to stop, to cease and let me be still.
My hands are clasped over my head and I hear voices around me, the other women are standing up and looking around.
I open my eyes.
There it is – only, I must be in the wrong place. It’s the tomb, I’m sure it is, but the rock has been moved. Only no one’s looking at the rock.
I’m shaking again, my knees are weak because I don’t know what I’m seeing – lightning with hands and feet? A thousand stars looking at me, blinking? I’m shaking all over, and then the light begins to speak, and it sounds like the voice is coming from the night sky, from the farthest stars, and from right next to me, at the same time.
I hear words, comforting words that calm and soothe and my hands stop shaking so badly. And then the lightning figure speaks again only this time I hear the voice but I can’t understand how the words make sense.
How does this face of fire know we were looking for Jesus? It’s telling me Jesus isn’t here, and my mind is numb as the lightning’s voice says Jesus is risen. My thoughts are stuck, I don’t understand and a quick glance shows me my friends’ shocked faces and I know I’m not alone in my daze.
Then the face turns and it’s like a prism and the figure shining so bright points into the tomb and I hear that voice echoing and close telling us to look and see where Jesus had been.
My hand still smell like myrrh. Am I still holding it? I look down at my hands and see they’re empty. I must have dropped it.
The lightning voice is speaking again and I hear it telling us to go, to go, quickly, and tell the others. I feel friends’ movement at my side and hear their feet running, running through the garden. My body’s not responding. I look down and realize my hands are clutching my head.
Look. Don’t look for the myrrh. I’m supposed to look in the tomb. Only I can’t move, and when I lower my arms, I discover my face is wet. I’m heaving sobs and can’t stop; I’m not sure why. I’m terrified, but this hope now living inside me, it won’t die. I will my legs to move, and I look down into the cavern. And then the figure wearing lightning asks me why I’m crying and my brain is stuck again. All I know is that I came with myrrh to this tomb and it’s empty and what do I say?
“They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put him.”
And I turn away from the tomb that doesn’t make sense and I’m still crying into my hands that smell like myrrh, when I see someone standing nearby. It must be the gardener.
That must be it. He saw something, he can tell me what happened. But I can’t ask. Instead, he asks me why I’m crying and who I’m looking for.
Please, I say. If the tomb was broken into, or that earthquake damaged it, and you carried him away, please, just tell me where. I brought myrrh. I have friends, they’re coming back, we’ll take him. Please, just tell me where.
But the gardener’s voice is different now, and he says my name – Mary.
And the world turns upside-down, only this time there’s no earthquake, because I don’t need to look for Jesus, or for my myrrh.
I’m looking at him. I hear my voice say “teacher?!” And I kneel at his feet, the feet we were going to wrap, the feet that were supposed to be still and now, with nail holes, are wriggling in front of my eyes.
And then Jesus – not in the tomb, not breathless and lifeless and cold – then Jesus tells me to go to the others with a message.
Suddenly my shaking has stopped. My feet are ready to run.
Paul, called to be an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, and our brother Sosthenes,
To the church of God that is in Corinth, to those who are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints, together with all those who in every place call on the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, both their Lord and ours:
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
I give thanks to my God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Christ Jesus, for in every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind—just as the testimony of Christ has been strengthened among you—so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ. He will also strengthen you to the end, so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is faithful; by him you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. – I Corinthians 1: 1-9
Fifteen years ago in May a phrase quickly washed up on the shore of North American pop culture: “voted off the island.”
A coworker becomes annoying: “we need to vote her off the island.”
A friend embroils himself in complicated circumstances: “if he isn’t careful, they’ll vote him off the island.”
“Survivor” had landed and has showcased average men and women plotting, scheming, sunbathing and eating bugs ever since. “Survivor” watching parties decked with tiki torches and the wafting scent of grilled pineapple made their way through the suburbs.
The tribe has spoken.
Fifteen years after Mark Burnett’s smash reality hit, I led my toddler by the hand, past flickering candles standing torch-like in shallow sand, past icons glinting with gold like the sea at sunrise, into a small room mysterious with a far-off, exotic scent. My family and I were visiting an Orthodox church. There were several reasons: I want to our children to experience different cultures, different forms of Christian worship. I want to tuck those memories quietly into their childhoods.
My husband and I also sensed something else extremely difficult to put into words as kind Orthodox believers asked what brought us after the service concluded. Words floated to the surface: “appreciate,” “enjoy,” “hospitality,” and “world.” Always “world.”
“The way things are going in the world…what ISIS is doing in the Middle East…”
We finally recognized the impulse: we wanted to show respect and appreciation. We wanted to learn. We wanted to show solidarity. The realization crystallized when I said, “I felt like I somehow wanted to express, ‘Greetings in the name of the Lord Jesus, from the followers of Christ in the family of Wesley! Grace to you and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ!'”
Thankfully, I did not startle the good people of this Orthodox congregation with such a Pauline greeting. And yet – together with all those who in every place call on the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, both their Lord and ours…
We had followed an impulse, an instinct, a hunch. We wanted to be ambassadors.
After all – a great deal of the New Testament was written by believers, to believers, about believers, in order to encourage believers. We saw it on their faces: the melted sadness, the sense of grief at what has been happening to Orthodox and Coptic Christians in the Middle East; the grateful acceptance of offered condolence.
Somehow, when a Copt is martyred in Egypt, North American Protestants feel it personally, point to it as persecution. Are we not called, then, to reach out in love to the family of traditions to whom that martyr belonged?
See how they love one another…I give thanks to my God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Christ Jesus, for in every way you have been enriched in him.
How can we be ambassadors in a world of islands – islands of culture, islands of politics, islands of loyalties? Every man is an island, we read, and we’re so very ready to vote him off of it.
But isolation kills. The Apostle Paul knew this, and in the days of long walks, no Marriott and tired feet, sent letters to scattered churches. The details changed from location to location. Some things remained the same:
You are not alone. The Holy Spirit will give you power. I thank God for you. Keep the faith. Don’t get distracted. You are part of a big family of believers, and they are praying for you.
In 2003, in celebration of the 300th anniversary of the birth of John Wesley, Cardinal Walter Kasper spoke at the Ponte Sant Angelo Methodist Church of Rome:
Wesley’s Letter to a Roman Catholic, written during the anti-Methodist riots in Cork in 1749, was something of an exception to all of this. Indeed it has been referred to as an ecumenical classic. In a plea for greater understanding, Wesley outlines what he sees as the essential beliefs of “true, primitive Christianity”, wherein most of what is said could be easily embraced by the Catholic Church. He invites Methodists and Catholics “to help each other on in whatever we are agreed leads to the Kingdom”, and proposes that “if we cannot as yet think alike in all things, at least we may love alike”, and finally, expresses his hope that they will meet in heaven.
We are called to be ambassadors in a world of islands: to strengthen the Body of Christ around the world, not to outlast other tribes by strength of will or cunning strategy, but to greet like long-last family: I give thanks to my God always for you! We are called not only to share the good news of God’s love to the world at large, but also to share it, time and again, with branches of the family tree different from our own.
You are not alone. The Holy Spirit will give you power. I thank God for you. Keep the faith. Don’t get distracted. You are part of a big family of believers, and they are praying for you.
We’ve all had enough “Lord of the Flies.” Jesus Christ calls us to practice sharing our island with others who call out his name as waves slide in and out of the sand seconds before their heads are separated from their bodies.
How fitting, Triune God, that John the Revelator saw you making all things new while he sat on an island…
There I was, punching couch cushions, trying to keep my sudden, violent shouts muted so I wouldn’t wake up the kids.
If you watched the University of Kentucky vs. Notre Dame college basketball game Saturday night, you know what I’m talking about: a nail-biter, an epic battle. “This is why we love sports,” a headline blazed the following morning.
In the aftermath of the win (in Kentucky, a win really does leave an aftermath), a story popped up online showing an entirely different angle to the triumphant chest bumps and crazed leaps of players suddenly realizing they’re headed to the Final Four.
For a moment I thought I’d dozed off in front of my Facebook feed which, full of UK fans and friends in ministry, has been overflowing with a steady stream of Kentucky blue and Holy Week imagery punctuated with chipper pastors subtly posting service times in bold alongside inspiring photos on Saturday nights and Sunday mornings.
Men kneeling in front of others, washing their feet. The Pope? No, that’s not the Pope. Friend’s promotion for Maundy Thursday service? Religious icon?
Or a team of basketball players?
Kentucky residents would’ve seen this clip last August (there’s nothing about the Wildcats that goes uncovered in the Bluegrass).
“Well, no wonder they play so well together,” I thought after first seeing the video over the weekend. “They washed feet together. And shared humility always brings unity.”
This thought came unbidden as if it were an overfamiliar bumper sticker. What?
Shared humility always brings unity.
Pictures emerged from my mind: the close bond I’d built with fellow students on a mission trip where we, yes, served others.
Believers gathered in an upper room, praying, waiting together in humility for the Holy Spirit.
The Book of Acts: disciples beaten, thrown in jail together; as much as we dwell on the early conflicts of the early church, consider this: the thousands of miles of road traveled, the uncomfortable nights, the stressful circumstances. When’s the last time you traveled with someone else for months? Years? Travel brings out the hidden depths of the human soul like no other experience: hotel clerks recognize the despair in an exhausted parent’s eyes after driving for hours with small children. Peaceful partnerships descend into irrational, chaotic fights in which unfoldable maps are bandied like awkward paper weapons. “See how they love each other”? While traveling?
“Ah,” you counter, “but they had the Holy Spirit. They were anointed.”
“Yes,” I would counter, “but they were also human beings, not the Incarnate Christ,” as several stories from Acts will bear me out.
Yes, they had the blessing of the Holy Spirit at work. But it would seem that one of the Holy Spirit’s favorite ways to work is by doing remarkable things through shared humility. And by birthing unity through Spirit-infused shared humility.
When Jesus washed the disciples’ feet, he set them an example: this is who I am, this is what I do. Now, go and do likewise. What they couldn’t anticipate was the real-world result that washing feet together yields.
Have a conflict in your church? Don’t just schedule a service in which people on one side of the argument are “serendipitously” paired to wash the feet of the people on the other side (although I still recommend just that). Send them all out to wash feet together.
There’s another way that shared humility brings unity. Consider worship, and what it is. Whether you picture a church service or crowds gathered around a royal palace, note that first and foremost, before anything else is done, worship is shared humility. How can it not be? You’re gathered with your peers to publicly announce, through kneeling for prayers, or singing words, that you all depend on God alone; that God alone is worth worship, and that you are not. To worship is to humble yourself. To worship together is to humble yourselves together. Humbling yourselves together is shared humility. Shared humility brings unity.
As we move towards Maundy Thursday this Holy Week, let me ask: whose feet do you need to wash? Who has given you a headache recently, caused you pain? And with whom do you need to go and wash feet, sharing humility side by side?
Recently my family was invited into the home of some international students. They treated us like honored guests, cooking and serving because, as one of them said, “you take care of us, so it’s only right that we take care of you sometimes.” While there, one of them matter of factly commented on the habit of a couple locals who would deliberately rev their vehicles and buzz the students while they were mid-crosswalk, crossing the street.
The international black students.
One student had a bottle of urine thrown on them from a moving truck window.
I have never dealt with sexism with the grace that my black friends consistently deal with racism.
One pastor with whom I recently attended a conference led a peaceful march a couple of months ago. Some townspeople wore miniature white Klan masks and put fried chicken and watermelon in the middle of the road on which the marchers approached. What was the response of the marchers? To switch the focus onto the number of people who had offered lemonade or refreshment to the peaceful protesters.
What if the media were flooded by images of local police departments kneeling down, one by one, and washing citizens’ feet? What if the media were flooded by images of community leaders kneeling down, one by one, washing officers’ feet? What if the media were flooded by images of police departments and NAACP members traveling together to build concrete block houses for Proyecto Abrigo in Juarez, Mexico? What if the media were flooded by images of rival politicians walking into each others’ offices to wash each others’ feet?
Alright, I may get carried away a little.
Except I’m not carried away. Even DC politicians – of both parties – are not beyond the Spirit-charged grace that comes with shared humility.
This is what the Gospel is: unlikely candidates for sainthood lined up to shock their bodies with a subservient physical posture. Unlikely candidates for sainthood lined up, minds paralyzed with the reality that someone is touching their feet.
“Do bad guys like to sing about Jesus?” This is the kind of question I field from my five-year-old son during bath time. I’d been singing a song from their “Little Blessings” choir to keep the music in the kiddos’ minds. As I got ready to wash my little boy’s feet, I told him about Saul, a bad guy who did not sing about Jesus, meeting Jesus on the road and loving to sing about Jesus afterwards – so much that his name changed and later when he was singing about Jesus a prison broke open.
Bad guys have been a theme for my little guy lately, who every night prays, “Dear God, thank you for everybody and everything except bad guys.” No matter how much we tell him bad guys need prayer, no matter how much we pray for bad guys, he has staunchly resisted.
Oh, little guy. Let’s wash the bad guys’ feet.
Who knows. Maybe someday Duke players will wash Kentucky players’ feet.
Today my first-person perspective of Resurrection Day sits over at this website in honor of the traditional myrrh-bearers – the women who went to care for Jesus’ body at the tomb, later running and announcing the resurrection to the rest of the disciples. (Yes, Protestants – after Greek Orthodox Pascha [Easter], the tradition observes the Feast of the Holy Myrrhbearers; have we forgotten how to remember female saints?).
In Zimbabwe, traditionally women preach the Easter sermon, because it was women who were the first witnesses to the resurrection.
A woman’s voice can usher in the Kingdom of God.
I don’t know what lullabies Mary sang to her infant, who, contrary to “Away in a Manger,” would’ve wailed and screamed like any other baby because that’s what Fully Humans do. I do know some other words Mary spoke right before Jesus’ first miracle. “Whatever he tells you to do, do it.”
A woman’s voice can usher in the Kingdom of God.
Women’s History Month is punctuated by International Women’s Day; the internet floats retrospectives up to the surface, and we see photos of ceiling-shatterers, of sisters and mamas captured in time because they happened to be in a certain place on a certain day. I’m young enough to be surprised at the outcry caused simply by a woman running in a marathon. I’m old enough to feel impatient that progress in certain areas seems to have stalled in my lifetime. I’m aware enough to know how much things have changed in the past 100 years.
Women got the vote. Women welded and riveted. Women got labor-saving devices. Women burned bras. Women embraced careers. Women got the power to sue harassers. Women rediscovered value in parenting, knitting, gardening. Women took selfies.
Obviously there were some ups and downs.
This March is a bit different for me. This March, instead of reflecting on Earharts and Bhuttos and Roosevelts, I keep hearing the voices that echo from far away; voices that are muted; voices cut off.
I think about the women who lost toddlers to a vicious ruler bent on destroying a baby who drew wise men from the Far East – Herod’s slaughter of the innocents.
I think about a woman in a rural Chinese village, unable to pay a fine for a second child, losing a baby to a government-forced abortion against her will. She can’t even blog about it.
I think about about Felicity and Perpetua, saints, women who were martyred in the early church the nameless women like them who died for their faith.
I think about Assyrian Christian women kidnapped by ISIS in Syria.
I think about a story in the book of Genesis about the rape of Dinah and I think about young women fighting for dignity and healing from sexual assault and trafficking through organizations like Project Unbreakable and the International Justice Mission.
A woman’s voice can usher in the Kingdom of God – whether or not we hear it. How many women have gone unheard?
Ultimately, all the voices are heard: they hold up the rafters of the universe in prayer, they proclaim the Risen Christ and worship joyfully, they whisper hope and comfort with Messiah-smiles to the dying and the ones dead inside.
Ultimately, all the voices are heard: the voices weeping for their babies, screaming in loss, yelling in protest, whispering in despair. They are heard, like Martha and Mary’s voices were heard by a heartbroken Messiah – “if you had been here…”
You know what followed.
“Jesus wept.”
Dear sisters – we hear you. Across the centuries – we hear you. When no historian wrote your part of the human tale – we hear you. From the other side of the world – we hear you.
Founder of the Methodist movement John Wesley’s last letter was written about the urgent need to end slavery. He wrote it to famous abolitionist William Wilberforce. Wilberforce was someone who could hear silenced voices.
A woman’s voice can usher in the Kingdom of God.
Lord, in your mercy, show us how to hold the megaphone.
Lord, in your mercy, show us how to set caged voices free.
On the road, an interesting question is posed. First of all, consider what we know of Saul in the early portion of the book of Acts. He watched the coats of the witnesses who approved the men creating the first Christian martyr, stoning Stephen. Later Saul “breathes murderous threats” against the followers of Jesus. For all intents and purposes, this man is a persecutor of men, women and even children.
“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” When Jesus Christ appears to Saul on the road leading to Damascus, the statement slices through the air: average women and men may be suffering, but Saul is actually acting out against Jesus Christ, Word Made Flesh, fully God and fully human. This doesn’t downgrade the suffering of Jesus’ followers: it elevates it. Saul, when you raise your hand against these people, you strike the second person of the Triune God.
Second, consider Saul’s zeal. He was chasing people down, hunting them out like a religious bounty hunter determined to get his dues. Saul wasn’t an internet troll spewing hateful comments; he wasn’t just a jerk spouting opinions. He was actively determined to physically intervene in the lives of those who believed differently than he did.
“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” This powerful man stands up from the ground with his world flipped upside-down. He is led by the hand like a child, taken into town blinded by truth, stunned. He doesn’t eat or drink for three days. He does pray. The big raid planned for Damascus has turned into a completely different scene. God speaks to Ananias (maybe someone on Saul’s list of suspects?) to go and pray over Saul. Ananias coughs and splutters. When Ananias arrives, he addresses the famous scourge of Christ-followers, knowing this man will have a difficult road ahead: “Brother Saul…”
What do we learn from the persecutor who would later be chased down, shipwrecked, beaten, and tossed in jail – eventually to himself be martyred?
We learn that anyone can have an encounter with Jesus Christ at any time. It doesn’t matter who you deem evil; it doesn’t even matter if that person has caused you personally to suffer greatly because of your faith. No one is beyond being confronted with the blinding light of Christ, in this world or the next. Followers of Jesus are actually told to pray for those who persecute them.
We learn that those who receive a hard lesson of a spiritual truth need help along the way. Saul, whose hands had dragged believers, was led by the hand, completely helpless until someone came to him. Ananias prayed for him, and Saul depended on others to baptize him and get him something to eat as he regained strength.
While praying, Saul had seen a vision of someone named Ananias coming to him. Why? Was he despairing? Thinking he would be blind forever? Was he terrified of the people in Damascus, fearing retribution once it became known that the great persecutor was helpless and vulnerable? Was he in need of some profound gesture of grace – the kind of gesture it would be if he knew Ananias’ profile already when he had gotten the priests’ permission to go to Damascus in the first place? Saul needed to know Ananias was coming. He needed to know he was going to be healed, to be welcomed into the family. And then he heard the words, “brother Saul.”
We learn that a converted persecutor doesn’t lose his zeal. Immediately, Saul began preaching in Damascus that Jesus is the Son of God. Saul after the vision on the road to Damascus is, after all, still Saul: the same temperament, the same personality. Believers slowly creak into acceptance after initial (and not unwarranted) skepticism, fearing a trap. And almost as immediately, Saul now is the one hunted, the one on the run, escaping death threats and traps, even being lowered over the city wall in a basket as an escape measure. The hunter is the hunted, but his zeal doesn’t wane. The persecutor now proclaims.
Why does this matter?
Because during Lent we have the opportunity to examine our lives for ways in which we persecute others. You may not have lit a match to burn someone at the stake in modern-day North America; but what about the words we speak, the characters we assault, the gossip or slander that slices at speaker, listener and subject with the cold, deep bite of a sword? What about the violence we express in our interactions with others, rage that pours out and refuses to be scooped back up and contained? What about the thoughts in our minds as we assess in the blink of an eye the character of another person because of her skin tone or language? What about the ways in which our selfishness steals opportunity or joy from others, when self-will motivates generosity and twists it into manipulation?
Because our brothers and sisters in this world are suffering for their faith. Complex geopolitical matters aside, the facts remain that recently a mass beheading was carried out because the victims professed Christian faith. While we pray for the victims’ souls, the victims’ families, we are also entreated to pray for the executors by none other than Jesus himself: “pray for those who persecute you.” We are called to imagine a scenario in which someone zealous for their cause bumps up against Jesus Christ on their way to raise havoc. We are called to extend a hand, to pray for and to proclaim, “brother…the Lord, who you met on the road, has sent me…”
Because we need to remember our own hate, our own anger, our own zealousness, our own ungentle or damaging words, our own ability to destroy. What more is Ash Wednesday than this? To bow the head, receive the ash, and be led by the hand to a time of fasting and prayer? What more is Lent than putting to death the inner persecutor and praying determinedly for the outer one?
Though I’ve never seen the film “Taken,” I have seen some delightful reels of action star Liam Neeson’s intense phone conversations that take place in the movie franchise.
This, alas, is a Neeson-free post (though everyone’s favorite northern Irishman has dabbled in the Divine, voicing the character of “Aslan” in the Narnia movies and providing a cameo as a hobo-esque Jesus in the British show “Rev”).
No, my thoughts are tugged towards a different kind of taken.
If you believe in an open universe, if you believe in the probability of an Unmoved Mover or Real Reality and you believe that that Being Greater Than Which Nothing Can Be Conceived exists, you might believe that that Being is involved the world. You might believe that that Being is a Triune Being and that each person of this Being is somehow active in the world that bears witness to a great deal of order, pattern and sequence. And if you do believe that there might be a more-than-natural First Cause who not only sustains the world but also has interest in it, to put it mildly, then you might believe that this Triune Being, in goodness, providence and infinite power, is greater than your understanding of space and time and what it means to have a past and a future. And that God (in case you hadn’t picked up on who we were talking about) not only communicates through and with creation and creatures, but might even communicate the idea that it would be good for you to do something with your life that communicates about this Being to the world in which you live.
In other words, to be a Christian likely means you have some idea of the notion that God calls humans to serve himself and others, and that God calls some humans in particular to bear special responsibility for what one might call “Christian ministry.”
In further words, to be a Christian likely means that at some point you have or you will allow yourself to listen to a sermon, and that you have or will hear a sermon that pops the question:
“Is God calling you into full-time ministry?”
Accounts of various saints’ calls and experiences reach pretty far back into church history: St. Augustine among the most notable. No one is questioning the important role of communicating these stories to the faithful.
But what about the times when followers of God find themselves less “called” and more “taken”? Sometimes a call to ministry bears the stamp of a certain luxury: the luxury of unfettered response.
There is no biblical account of Joseph “feeling called to go to Egypt and minister there.” No, he certainly had valuable – if poorly handled – dreams: dreams that revealed a future beyond his comprehension. The thing is, no one follows their dreams by being kidnapped, sold, and confined in enforced servitude. That’s not how we “pursue our God-given destiny.” No adviser or mentor suggests this as a route to vocational success. Bound for greatness? Become a slave! Find your passion in 10 easy steps!
No – Joseph was taken to Egypt, not called to go there. There was no beautiful Ruth-and-Naomi moment: “where you go, I will go.” It was not a pretty picture. He was ripped from loved ones, taken at the height and strength of youth, carried to an unknown place by unknown people, suffered for his virtue, left to rot in prison to battle his thoughts of what kind of man he must have been to make his brothers hate him so much.
Friends, sometimes what they meant for evil, God means for good. And you may find yourself where you don’t want to be:
An early widower with young children.
A new citizen of an unfamiliar state due to layoffs, recession and foreclosure.
An employee suffering because of choices not to gossip, backstab and maneuver with ambition.
A divorcee grieving the smoldering ruins of a marriage begun in bright hope.
A normal person working a normal job with a sudden, devastating cancer diagnosis still ringing in your stunned ears.
A loving elder forced by frailty to depend on others, wondering if God has forgotten you after years of faithfully serving him.
A young person with a gritty work ethic, love of family – and no state documentation, through no fault of your own.
An artist wondering if you’ll have to choose between your love of creating and a roof over your head.
How often we are taken to Egypt, in shock and utterly alone, the landscape of our homeland receding in the distance with only the smell of wretched camel to accompany us on the journey. The food is different, the language is different, the traditions are different.
Your soul is homesick, and when you hear people talk about God’s calling, the words sound mocking.
“Called? God called you? That’s fantastic, really great for you. I had dreams, too. Visions for the future. Now I’m working three jobs, dealing with a chronic illness and regularly get passed over for promotion because I’m not willing to lie. Maybe I imagined those dreams. God calls some people, I have faith in that. I’m just not sure how I’m fulfilling my calling by working as a customer service rep during the holidays…Maybe I was mistaken about God’s big plans for my life.”
I’m here to remind you today that you didn’t imagine those dreams. You didn’t imagine that vision. And God has not forgotten you. Perhaps you’ve been taken where you never wished to go. Maybe life has seemed all detour, no destination. Maybe you think that you’ve gone beyond the reach of God’s purposes, serving no useful role in any way that amounts to much.
The truth is that sometimes people are called, and sometimes people are taken. I’ve become more and more convinced that the real growth happens in those circumstances over which you have no control. It’s one thing to bounce up, exclaiming, “here I am! Send me!” It’s quite another to say, “though he slay me, yet will I trust him,” and, “the Lord gives, the Lord takes away – blessed be the name of the Lord…”
Though I end up five states away from my relatives, yet will I trust him.
Though I spend Valentine’s with the aftereffects of chemo, blessed be the name of the Lord.
Though the job my heart yearned for disappeared from my hands, yet will I trust him.
Though a stroke has landed me in a care facility where I share a room with a woman who can’t remember how many children she has, blessed be the name of the Lord.
When you’re taken instead of offered the bright promise of freedom to respond to a call, remember where you’re actually headed; where you’ll actually end up.
The taken always make their way to the lap of Jesus.
You’re not just taken; you’re taken to Christ. You’re not just detoured from your real purpose; those detours from purpose are shortcuts to the face of Jesus. You’re not just removed from the life of your dreams; you’re removed to the presence of Christ, who wipes away every tear.
Jesus was taken – led away, tied up, beat up, spit on.
Warning: this post contains references to the animated feature film “Frozen.” Overexposure to this movie may result in children shrieking song lyrics in the car, a conviction that your front yard snowman can talk, and a commitment to trip over “Frozen” themed toys for at least the next three years.
You may have seen me in the headlines recently: “Last North American Hold-Out Finally Succumbs, Sees Popular Children’s Movie. Nobody Noticed.” Timing, big life transitions, and overexposure by osmosis eventually led to a situation in which my household, which includes two young children, simply hadn’t seen the film yet. But I’m glad we saw it when we did, all four of us hunkered down with bad colds, the oldest kid now old enough to really appreciate the message.
Because cynics, beware: there is a definite message in “Frozen,” and it’s great. Inane children’s entertainment makes cynics of us all – bland, mindless programming led Stephen Colbert to tell his children they could watch all they wanted of “Rocky and Bullwinkle” because of the intelligence behind the show’s humor. For a long time, Disney slid, slightly out of control like a crooked car on an icy inclined street, veering closer to storyless animated punchlines merchandised primarily through Happy Meals. I won’t argue that “Frozen” showcases the best narrative ever, or even that the music is that good.
But truth, beauty and goodness matter – and finally, we have a Disney film that doesn’t show the hero lying (“Aladdin”), helpless (most classic princess movies), or struggling with grown-up themes a bit beyond the imaginative play stages of children (“The Lion King,” wrestling with guilt over the unjust death of a parent and struggling to find identity and role in society – themes that work well in “Hamlet” but perhaps less so with five-year-old’s).
So if you’re late to the game like me, or you’re a parent who’s only caught bits and pieces of the movie walking through the room carrying clean laundry, or you’re not a big movie watcher and the most recent hit you remember is “A Few Good Men,” here’s why you need to watch “Frozen.”
And if you’ve seen it a million times and you want to strangle the animated snowman and never hear “Let It Go” ever again, here’s a new faith-y take on “Frozen” – a movie, as it turns out, that easily brings John Wesley to mind.
1. I could have spewed a hot beverage into a cloud of spray when I heard a main character say, “love means putting other people’s needs before your own.” Was this a Disney film or “Veggie Tales”? I think we’re seeing what I’ll term “The Veggie Tales Effect” – a renewed appreciation for childhood storytelling in film that showcases true virtue (another recent Disney movie, “Maleficent,” demonstrates this trend). There are plenty of online resources for integrating this message into children’s sermons and resources, and it ought to be done.
What does John Wesley say about this “Olaf” kind of love?
What is then the perfection of which man is capable while he dwells in a corruptible body? It is the complying with that kind command, “My son, give me thy heart.” It is the “loving the Lord his God with all his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his mind.” This is the sum of Christian perfection: It is all comprised in that one word, Love. The first branch of it is the love of God: And as he that loves God loves his brother also, it is inseparably connected with the second: “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself:” Thou shalt love every man as thy own soul, as Christ loved us. “On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets:” These contain the whole of Christian perfection. (John Wesley’s sermon “On Perfection”)
2. Plenty of adults need to see a story about frozen hearts and thawed hearts. All the world’s programming about effective Christian witness can’t compete with believers who have warm, thawed hearts, and all the world’s programming about effective Christian witness can’t thaw frozen hearts that sit like a cold stone on an unbending pew, rock-hard, Sunday after Sunday. And what thaws a frozen heart? An act of true love (contrasted admirably to the trope of “true love’s kiss”).
Here, then, is the sum of the perfect law; this is the true circumcision of the heart. Let the spirit return to God that gave it, with the whole train of its affections. ‘Unto the place from whence all the rivers came thither let them flow again. Other sacrifices from us he would not; but the living sacrifice of the heart he hath chosen. Let it be continual offered up to God through Christ, in flames of holy love.’ (John Wesley, “The Circumcision of the Heart”)
Wesley also cited a beautifully well-worn passage from Ezekiel when he preached,
But the great question is, whether there is any promise in Scripture, that we shall be saved from sin. Undoubtedly there is…Such is that glorious promise given through the Prophet Ezekiel…”A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: And I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments, and do them.” (“On Perfection”)
Not all grown-up cynicism springs from overexposure to trite children’s programming after all, as a recently cited thought from G.K. Chesterton reminds us: “for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” We are called to have soft, yielding hearts, the kind that grew in Simon Peter after the series of “do you love me?” questions from Jesus, the kind of heart that Judas wanted but couldn’t quite manage as he threw silver coins in a supreme act of futility, attempting to undo his actions – by going to the high priests and elders instead of Jesus himself.
3. You have ice somewhere in your veins. If only the ice in your veins made itself show in a telltale streak of light hair. The trek towards a heart full of complete, sacrificial love is one in which brittle shards of bitterness and fear melt into forgiveness and boldness – as scripture points out. “Perfect love casts out fear.” It’s true that “some people are worth melting for,” as the dripping snowman exclaimed, and your call and mine is to allow the crackling blaze of the Holy Spirit to chase away the chill that comes with living in an “always winter, never Christmas” world. Thank you, God, for the act of true love we’re getting ready to march towards in Lent, that has set the world melting.
