Author Archives: hummingbird

Kevin Murriel ~ Race: The Newest Old Issue Confronting American Christian Life

This is the first in a series of articles on racial reconciliation in American Christian Life.

Several weeks ago I attended a conference in Houston, Texas that targeted ministry with large churches. Throughout the conference were presentations on technology, capitol campaigns, and “new age” ideas in ecclesiological innovation. Many left with concepts to take back to their congregations in hopes of implementation while others departed inspired with a rejuvenated energy for ministry. I, however, returned to Atlanta convinced that few recognized what was missing. There was no mention of the race problem we continue to face that affects American Christian life and the growth of our congregations.

Yes, I called it a “problem.” Problems are unresolved issues that stall progress. And needless to say, our inability as a country and as the Body of Christ to have productive conversations about the reality of racism is a problem. By race, I mean, our biologically engineered features (not to be confused with ethnicity) – the problem we often have with each other because of our color differences.

One of my confirmation classes experienced this problem first-hand. At their confirmation retreat two years ago, 35 black youth from an affluent Atlanta congregation were asked by a large group of white youth if their church was “ghetto”and if their hair was “real.” Where they were from and how prominent their parents were didn’t matter–only the difference in their skin color.

Because of the race problem, the nation now has to face itself in the way it did when Emmett Till was murdered in 1955. Ordering that the casket remain open at his funeral, Till’s mother wanted America to see that senseless killing as a result of racism is not just unjust, but evil. That no one regardless of their color should have their life end under such cruel circumstances.

Fast-forward 60 years and the nation now faces more media coverage of the killings of unarmed black men and women as well as the issue of racial profiling. Not that these things are new, they are just receiving more media coverage since the Travyon Martin case in 2012.

It is important to pause here and explain my intent. I am not a race baiter.  Neither do I believe that inciting rage is the way to productive discourse. Rather, I am a pastor who always seeks ways to unite God’s people regardless of the associated discomfort.

Race is an uncomfortable thing to discuss. It brings back memories for many who would prefer them remain in the closet in which they were locked. Some even ask if race matters at all.  It is the 21st century and by the way, we have a two-term black president, interracial families, minority-owned businesses and multi-cultural churches. Why is there a race conversation?

A recent New York Times article titled, “Racial Bias, Even When We Have Good Intentions,” cited a study conducted by Marianne Bertrand, an economist from the University of Chicago that highlighted the effect of race on job opportunities. Bertrand and her team mailed thousands of résumés to employers with job openings and measured which ones were selected for callbacks for interviews. But before sending them, they randomly used stereotypically African-American names (such as “Jamal”) on some and stereotypically white names (like “Brendan”) on others.

The same résumé was roughly 50 percent more likely to result in a callback for an interview if it had a “white” name–even though the résumés were statistically identical.

The conversation about race is important for the Church because it directly affects our parish–the world. And though every person has value, we each have intrinsic prejudices. Whether parents become nervous when a black kid shows up to a majority white youth group, or members of a primarily black congregation look suspiciously at a Latino man with tattoos who decides to attend worship, we often have the propensity to feel some kind of way towards the “other.”

So, where do we begin?

I contend that it begins with a desire to love all people and seeing the Kingdom of God as racially diverse. God did not create everyone to physically look the same so it is preposterous to think that God is White, Black, Hispanic, or any other race and only attends a certain “type”of church. Such a theology about God will keep the Church divided as it has for centuries.

One of my mentors, Dr. Gil Watson, is a white pastor serving one of the most prominent churches in United Methodism, located in the Buckhead area of Atlanta, Georgia. He is 40 years my elder and has been in ministry longer than I have been alive. We continue to see God, through our conversations, expand our understanding of each other and our calling as pastors. This relationship is intentional, and at times, uncomfortable for us both; and at the same time, one of the most rewarding experiences of our lives.

What he and I understand is that we are the Church–one, holy, apostolic, and universal–and our witness demands that we live in these intentional, uncomfortable relationships and lead the difficult conversations about the race problem. Society should not drive the Church; rather, the Church should be the influencer of society.

The race problem, however, does not have to remain. When reconciliation comes, such a problem is overcome. This will be the next subject in this series. So, stay tuned.

Elizabeth Glass Turner ~ Invisible Growth: Because Evil Doesn’t Win

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.

Oh friend, I’m so proud of you.

Look at how you’ve grown…

 

Elizabeth Glass Turner ~ In Awe of the Resurrection

Note from the Editor: This piece originally appeared as the cover story for the March/April 2015 issue of Good News magazine, which offers practical resources for renewed and robust ministries, and which you can find here.

Though the Easter candy on store shelves has now reached the 90% off mark, Christians continue to celebrate the season of Easter as we move through spring. Have you felt the resurrection? How are you praying as we read of Christ’s appearances to his disciples and as our minds turn towards Pentecost?

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.

I whirl around and begin to run.

I don’t look back.

Elizabeth Glass Turner ~ Ambassadors in a World of Islands

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…

Kevin R. Murriel ~ The Power of a Resurrection Day “Selfie”

Selfies make us feel important. A quick snapshot with a mobile device and instantly our pictures are viewable by billions of people around the world. If we’re honest, we often take selfies with the intention of getting as many “likes” as possible by our followers.

Each year, Easter, for Christians, welcomes a different energy in our places of worship. Proclaiming with loud voices in song, “He Lives!” always stirs the soul!

What I did not realize, however, is that when I went to my office after Easter worship and checked social media, I would have an epiphany–Easter is the greatest “selfie” Sunday for Christians as well.

As I reviewed my timelines on Facebook and Instagram, the pages were saturated with selfies of worshipers in their Easter finest. Picture after picture of different colors and patterns from various denominations and cultures!

Religiously, we celebrate Easter because Jesus Christ rose from the grave, overcoming the power of sin and death and offering us the gift of eternal life and communion with God our Creator. Yet, because our post-modern culture has become saturated with the commercialization of major Christian (and non-Christian) celebrations, we must often approach those unfamiliar with centuries-old traditions with a new way of explaining the effect of the resurrection in the lives of human beings.

Here is the reality of Easter: Death and the grave are overcome. Good Friday is conquered by Resurrection Sunday. The Messiah lives and reigns. God’s Kingdom is here and now and is prepared for those in the eschaton (the life the come).

As a result, followers of Christ should be changed and transformed from the inside out. We should, in effect, have something glorious to capture–that is, a new life living in the power of the resurrection.

A few weeks ago I had the privilege of going to the Order of the Flame conference sponsored by World Methodist Evangelism. It was a gathering of around 100 pastors and their spouses from the Pan-Methodist connection. We had seminars around our responsibility as witnesses for Christ and were encouraged to remain Faithful Leaders as Mission Evangelists (F.L.A.M.E.) throughout our ministry.

Many moments during this conference were powerful, but perhaps the most touching moment happened when the entire group prayed for one of our brothers’ infant daughter who is battling a rare form of cancer. With our hands laid upon him, we prayed that the power that raised Christ would also heal his daughter.

It was a request for a miracle.

What makes us think we can make such an audacious request? My answer is clear, the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

In his book on the “Dynamics of Faith,” Paul Tillich says that, “faith is not an act of any of [humanity’s] rational functions, as it is not an act of the unconscious, but it is an act in which both the rational and non-rational elements of his being are transcended” (Tillich, 6).

Believing in a miracle, a rationally unexplainable occurrence, takes exactly what Tillich describes–a faith that transcends our comprehension without excluding our consciousness. In other words, we should know what we are asking for but not expect the miracle to come in ways we can understand. This is the great mystery and power of our faith.

Do we know how God is going to heal this little girl? No, we do not. But we believe God is able. The resurrection gives us this hope.

This hope reminds me of a “witnessing” experience I had during my undergraduate studies. It was late one night and my friends and I were leaving the library. We departed in my vehicle and proceeded to our dorm. I parked, and as we were getting out, a homeless gentleman approached my driver’s side door.

His clothes were physically torn and he carried a trash bag that I assumed contained his personal belongings. It was dark and late and from my perspective, an inconvenient time for God to place me in a witnessing situation – especially after the gentleman explained to me that he had just been released from the state mental institution for stabbing someone with a knife.

Ten dollars is what he wanted. But God showed me something different.

Standing in front of me was a brother in Christ who was not only physically hungry, but also emotionally and spiritually hurting. So I asked, “before I give you the $10.00, may I pray with you?” He consented.

I prayed that the power of our risen Lord would overtake his life and heal any past or present pain. After we prayed, tears were flowing from his eyes and he simply said, “thank you.” I gave him the $10.00 and we parted ways.

My hope was that our interaction would be the gateway to his experience of a new life in Christ. But I did not know what would happen.

Some would argue rationally that this man’s life was unsalvageable. But where some rely on reason, God’s message is always, “if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Therefore, we believe that the power of Christ can change someone’s life–whether we witness it or not.

One Thursday evening about nine months later, I was leaving my father’s office which is close to the university. As I was getting into my car, a man yelled at me from across the street. “Hey, hey, brother!” he said, as he began running towards me. I asked him, “Sir, do I know you?”

He said, “You sure do! I am the man you prayed with in the parking lot at your university. I left that night and read the book you gave me; in fact, I still have it. I made amends with all of my family members that I hurt and now I am a changed man. I saw you and I knew I had to thank the man who led me to Jesus Christ, my Savior and Lord. But now I have to go, because I am volunteering today at the shelter up the street.”

He left jogging towards the shelter about a half-mile away looking and feeling physically and spiritually different. He had obviously experienced the power of the resurrection!

My only regret is that I didn’t take a selfie with him as proof of his transformation. But I finally realized that he had already taken plenty with Jesus on his personal Resurrection Day. They may never make it to social media, but Christ will assuredly remember them in his book of life.

Elizabeth Glass Turner ~ Humility. Unity. Worship.

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.

Hey, a girl can dream, right?

Elizabeth Glass Turner ~ A Woman’s Voice Can Usher in the Kingdom of God

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 – read here – 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.

Steve Beard ~ Take My Hand: The Gospel and the Blues

The first of several pivotal scenes in the film “Selma” occurs when the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. makes a late night phone call to gospel singer Mahalia Jackson. The undeniable weight of what lay ahead for King and the civil rights movement was heavy on his soul. In quiet desperation, King (played masterfully by David Oyelowo) awakens the gospel music legend with the phone call and simply says, “I need to hear the Lord’s voice.”

Mahalia Jackson (played by Ledisi Young) breaks the stillness of the night with an impromptu and stemwinding plea in her housecoat and slippers:

“Precious Lord, take my hand / Lead me on, let me stand / I am tired, I am weak, I am worn / Through the storm, through the night / Lead me on to the light / Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.”

This iconic scene in the film was indicative of King’s dependence upon spiritual strength, Jackson’s healing voice, and the Savior’s nail-scarred hands.

“Precious Lord” was King’s supplication, his way of reaching out for the hem of the garment. It was his last request only moments before his voice of eloquence was forever silenced on April 4, 1968, with a .30-06 bullet. King had just asked Chicago saxophonist Ben Branch to play the song at the rally later that night in Memphis.

As a farewell to her civil rights compatriot, Jackson sang “Precious Lord” at King’s funeral. This would be the last of innumerable times they would share the same stage. Whenever King requested it, Jackson was willing to lend her voice for the cause – despite the death threats. As the granddaughter of slaves, Jackson sang the gospel classic “I’ve Been ‘Buked, and I’ve Been Scorned” right before King gave his “I Have A Dream” speech in Washington D.C. Jackson is credited for steering King off his prepared text by shouting from behind the podium, “Tell them about the dream, Martin!”

Mahalia Jackson (1911-1972) was the undisputed queen of gospel music. She incurred the wrath from some church folks who resented the way she unveiled the power of gospel music outside the sanctuary in secular venues.

Others thought that her soaring style, hand-clapping, and foot-stomping borrowed too much from the blues and jazz singers of vaudeville, the sin bins, and the juke joints.

Despite heavy-handed pressure, Jackson never compromised on her personal vow to only sing gospel music. “Blues are the songs of despair,” she said. “Gospel songs are the songs of hope. When you sing gospel you have the feeling there is a cure for what’s wrong, but when you are through with the blues, you’ve got nothing to rest on.”

No one understood the spiritual chasm between blues and gospel more profoundly than did Thomas A. Dorsey (1899-1993), the songwriter of “Precious Lord” and the legendary father of gospel music. For more than a decade, Dorsey was also known for writing bawdy blues under the alias “Georgia Tom.” As the prodigal son of a church organist mother and a father who was a Baptist minister, Dorsey’s double life embodied a very real spiritual warfare.

“My soul was a deluge of divine rapture,” said Dorsey after hearing spirit-filled music at a revival. Not long after that, however, Dorsey was playing piano as Georgia Tom for blues legends Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Tampa Red.

Two severe and lengthy bouts with what he dubbed as “unsteadiness” incapacitated him from playing music and caused him to tailspin into depression. His mother told him to give up the blues and get back into the good graces of the Lord. But every time he would lurch in a righteous direction, it seemed as if the blues would lure him back. The war for his soul raged back and forth for many years.

After a miraculous divine encounter and prophecy at a church service, Dorsey made a heartfelt commitment to focus on gospel. A remarkable professional collaboration between Dorsey and Jackson began shortly thereafter.

In 1932, things would change forever for Dorsey. He had become the choir director of the Pilgrim Baptist Church in Chicago and was selling his songs to mass choirs. As he was preparing for a gospel concert in St. Louis, he received a telegram instructing him to immediately return home. By the time he arrived, his young wife Nettie had died giving birth to the couple’s son. Two days later, the baby also died.

Dorsey was crushed, despondent, and trampled underfoot. Social critic Stanley Crouch once observed that the New Testament contains perhaps the greatest blues line of all time — “Father, why hast thou forsaken me?”

It was in the forsakenness of that hour that Dorsey chipped away at the piano and wrote, “Precious Lord, take my hand …” In the sorrow of the desolation and flood of his loss, the song that inspired Dr. King was the dove that Dorsey released in search of dry land, the flight of hope. It was his blues: “I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.” It was his gospel: “Lead me on, let me stand.”

“If a woman has lost a man, a man has lost a woman, his feeling reacts to the blues, he feels like expressing it,” Dorsey told his biographer Michael W. Harris in The Rise of Gospel Blues (Oxford). “The same thing acts for a gospel song. Now you’re not singing blues; you’re singing gospel, good news song, singing about the Creator; but it’s the same feeling, a grasping of the heart.”

For Dorsey, life was both gospel and blues. He had seen it in the juke joints and the sanctuaries. “It gets low-down. Now what we call low-down in blues doesn’t mean that it’s dirty or bad or something like that,” Dorsey said. “It gets down into the individual to set him on fire, dig him up…”

“Precious Lord” became a universally beloved song because it grasped the heart. You can hear how it inspired King, energized Jackson, and bandaged up Dorsey. It enabled King to weave a civil rights message to a white audience over the growling police dogs, shouted racial slurs, and the segregated lunch counters. It empowered Jackson to take traditional gospel music to locations beyond the choir loft and to audiences beyond the black church. It inspired Dorsey to blend the juke joint blues with the Sunday morning hope of gospel.

It was both Good Friday heartbreak and Easter Sunday jubilation – somewhere right there in the grit and toil of life.

 

Reprinted with permission.

Aaron Perry ~ Deathless Death: Take Me to Church

“Something in you dies when you give yourself indiscriminately to gluttony, whether in food, drink, or sex.”[1] While it was New Testament scholar N.T. Wright who wrote that, it could just as easily have been written by singer-songwriter Andrew Hozier-Byrne (“Hozier”), as commentary on his song, “Take Me to Church.” The only difference is that Hozier celebrates this kind of “deathless death.” Wright does not. Neither do I. I think it’s God’s grace. I also think it is Wesleyan theology.

John Wesley was a eudaemonist. This means he was focused on happiness. I first heard this notion when I chanced to encounter Burrell Dinkins and the sermon he preached through an online chapel service from Asbury Theological Seminary.[2] Well, maybe it wasn’t chance, but a kind of prevenient grace. Dinkins captured something that was just beginning to emerge in my theological convictions in my first days of pastoral ministry: holiness—a life devoted to God—is the path both of and to happiness because it is the path to God.

But not all walk the holiness path. And sometimes the amount of sacrifice offered by the desperate traveler down a path that once promised happiness makes for a more determined traveler. Wright names three of the paths people plod in pursuit of happiness: food, alcohol, and sex. Hozier’s “Take Me to Church,” luring, rich, and haunting in melody and voice, is like a determined traveler calling heartfully from far down the path of sex-as-happiness. Its conviction and eerie beauty is undeniable. Go to YouTube here and listen to the song, but refrain from watching the video for the moment; it has a narrative of its own. You’ll hear what I mean.

Hozier wrote the song about his first breakup and the importance of sexuality in being human. “Sexuality, and sexual orientation—regardless of orientation—is just natural.”[3] It seems the expression of sexuality is the experience of heaven. From “Take Me to Church”:

My church offers no absolutes 
She tells me ‘worship in the bedroom’
The only heaven I’ll be sent to
Is when I’m alone with you
I was born sick, but I love it
Command me to be well
Amen. Amen. Amen 

Church, worship, heaven, amen. Religious words and divine experience interact clearly and seamlessly. Hozier makes it explicit: “an act of sex is one of the most human things. But an organization like the church, say, through its doctrine, would undermine humanity by successfully teaching about sexual orientation—that it is sinful, or that it offends God. The song is about asserting yourself and reclaiming your humanity through an act of love.”[4]

But the context of the song betrays this line. “Take Me to Church” does not speak of asserting oneself, but of offering oneself to the female goddess that is his lover. “If I’m a pagan of the good times / My lover’s the sunlight / To keep the Goddess on my side / She demands a sacrifice.” This leads into the doubly paradoxical conclusion: “Offer me that deathless death / Good God, let me give you my life.” It is paradoxical in “deathless death,” but also in the giving and taking: life is given and simultaneously taken.

Hozier further clarifies this deathless death: “I found the experience of falling in love or being in love was death—a death of everything. You kind of watch yourself die in a wonderful way and you experience for the briefest moment—if you do believe somebody and you see for a moment yourself though their eyes—everything you believed about yourself is gone.”[5] It seems that death comes at the hands of the lover. “Take Me to Church” vividly captures how sharing oneself in the relationship leads to this kind of (sacrificial) death: “I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife.” So, why would Hozier agree with Wright’s analysis of indiscriminate giving? Because Hozier believes that something in you dies when you give yourself in the human act of sex.

Yet when there is a kind of relationship, let’s call it consensual, this death must go both ways. The lover becomes not just the one who gives their life, but the one who takes the other’s life. Perhaps the song’s video inadvertently captures this paradox as well, as one gay lover looks on in helpless dismay at his seemingly unconscious or dead lover at the end of mob violence perpetrated because of their forbidden relationship. (You have probably already watched the YouTube video, but if not, then go watch it here and you’ll see what I mean.) The lyrical memorability and melodic thrust of the song capture the reality that it could be either lover in a relationship who vocalizes the message of the song. This mutual deathless death is the closest you get to love and happiness on the sex-as-happiness path.

So, how might Wesleyan theology engage this sex-as-happiness path? Wesley shows how certain pursuits of happiness have the adverse effect:

You seek happiness. But you find it not. You come no nearer it with all your labours. You are not happier than you was (sic) a year ago. Nay, I [expect] you are more unhappy. Why is this, but because you look for happiness there, where you [know] it cannot be found? Indeed, what is there on earth which can long satisfy a man of understanding? His soul is too large for the world he lives in. He wants more room.[6]

The sex-as-happiness path is not wrong because sex is bad and sexuality is shameful. Far from it! The sex-as-happiness path is wrong because it comes to an end. The path simply is not long enough. Sex is not enough. For Wesley, false paths to happiness are not simply dead-ends, though; instead, all shortcuts to happiness lead to hellish misery:

I entreat you to reflect, whether there are not other inhabitants in your breast, which leave no room for happiness there. May you not discover, through a thousand disguises, pride? Too high an opinion of yourself? Vanity, thirst for praise, even (who would believe it?) of the applause of knaves and fools? Unevenness or sourness of temper? Proneness to anger or revenge? Peevishness, fretfulness, or pining discontent? Nay, perhaps even covetousness. And did you ever think happiness could dwell with these? Awake out of that senseless dream. Think not of reconciling things incompatible. All these tempers are essential misery: so long as any of these are harboured in your breast, you must be a stranger to inward peace. What avails it to you if there be no other hell? Whenever these fiends are let loose upon you, you will be constrained to own, ‘Hell is where’er I am: myself am hell.’ [7]

To keep with the theme that Hozier introduced, this potential for hell on earth is why orthodox Christians maintain the traditional view of marriage and sexuality. While Hozier seems to equate an act of sex with an act of love in the interview with “The Cut” quoted above (http://nymag.com/thecut/2014/03/qa-hozier-on-gay-rights-sex-good-hair.html), Christian theology works to determine when an act of sex is an act of love in order to keep sex an act leading to happiness. Or, as writer Christopher West put Pope John Paul II’s theology of the body, “the problem with pornography is not that it reveals too much of the person, but that it reveals far too little.”

While there are different applications and important differences regarding sexual ethics within various minor and major Christian traditions, Christian theology broadly affirms that sex between a man and woman in a marriage relationship is the context where sex is act of love precisely because it is the relationship where one lover may give him- or herself without the other taking this life. Far from the relationship of goddess/god with sharpened knife demanding sacrifice in “Take Me to Church,” faithful marriage is the relationship where sex does not lead to a deathless death, but to life—most explicitly in the flesh-and-blood life of the child who becomes the symbol and reality of the mutual self-giving of two lovers.

The holiness-as-happiness path does not end in the same way that sex-as-happiness does. The holiness-as-happiness path does not end at all, really, because it is the path to God, the source of life and life to the full. God does not offer a deathless death, but endless life in resurrection. That’s the path of happiness. To trod that path? To read those lyrics? To hear that song? Take me to church.

 

[1] N.T. Wright, Paul for Everyone: The Pastoral Letters, SPCK: London, 28.

[2] http://place.asburyseminary.edu/ecommonsatschapelservices/992/

[3] http://nymag.com/thecut/2014/03/qa-hozier-on-gay-rights-sex-good-hair.html

[4] Ibid.

[5] http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/music/hozier-i-m-still-figuring-it-out-i-m-still-figuring-myself-out-1.1933663

[6] Wesley, Works. Volume 5, p. 137.

[7] John Wesley, The Works of John Wesley. Volume 5. New York: Emory and Waugh, 1831. “A Farther Appeal to Men of Reason and Religion,” p. 138.

Elizabeth Glass Turner ~ The Persecutor

“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”

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?

From dust we come…

Saul? Saul?

And to dust…

Why are you persecuting me?

We shall return.