Wesleyan Accent is World Methodist Evangelism’s online magazine of resources in the area of discipleship, evangelism, leadership and theology. Through articles, book reviews, and interviews, WME features leading and emerging voices of the Wesleyan Methodist world.
It took a while to realize what I was missing. It does sometimes. It took sitting in a pew to allow the revelation to dawn on me. Everyone needs to be led sometimes: especially leaders. I loved pronouncing the opening line of the call to worship; I loved welcoming the faithful and the not-so-faithful to the communion table; I loved
When I first arrived at seminary, I was astonished at the number of Wesleyans I met. Wesleyans everywhere! Having grown up in the small but active Wesleyan denomination, I was gratified to see it represented so fully. Then, about a week into the semester, I began to realize something – all the Wesleyans I was meeting were Wesleyan, not Wesleyan.
To die, to sleep— no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal
“Now we see dimly; then, face to face.” Not, perhaps, the most utilized portion of I Corinthians 13 at the ubiquitous summer wedding – but oddly, one of my favorite parts of the familiar chapter. It seems to distill the essence of faith: trust that we will eventually see “face to face” what we now discern only dimly, in fragments
As a grown-up, I traveled to a hospital once to visit a friend who’d had surgery. A mutual friend accompanied me. I watched his anxiety with amusement. He was anxious about how to find the elevators, anxious about reading the hospital map, anxious about the visit itself. I discovered that this otherwise rational, intelligent adult was uneasy and uncomfortable in
I’ll bet there are roads you could drive blindfolded if you really needed to. Maybe it’s the road from your house to the entrance of your subdivision, or the route you take to work, or the circuitous path you carve in your daily routine – stop, start, turn, pause, start again. The rhythm of acceleration, brake, the swing of the
“Too big to fail.” A few years ago – and it doesn’t matter what your personal political opinion was on the government bailout of American automakers – this phrase rang repeatedly in American consciousness. These businesses were too big to fail. We couldn’t afford to lose them, no matter the cost. They were essential to our identity and our economic
I’m a Yankee. Specifically, I was born in central Michigan, where the air is scented with pine needles and damp sand. I live in northeastern Texas – a region known for its own Piney Woods – but a world away from the cornfields of the Midwest, where I grew up. It may seem like a small question, but how does
I was thirty-two years old when a woman took my advice on how to die. Sitting in her low living room banked with windows that overlooked butterfly-laden bushes, I watched her shallow breaths. She had lost strength and energy: her frame seemed diminished, as if her soul were clinging to her body by mere tendrils. While disease sapped her vitality,
On a recent hot summer day, I pulled down the flap of my mailbox and discovered an official-looking summons. For the first time in my life, I had Jury Duty – those dreaded words that bring pained expressions to millions of Americans every year. Being a woman of a thousand and one opinions, however, I immediately waved the paper under
“Jesus has a body but the Father and Spirit do not. Discuss.” One of my acquaintances posted this on social networking recently, provoking a number of responses. One person wondered if Christ had always had physical form. The discussion spun and doubled back, spiraled and swung. And, as it happens, it matters. Frequently theology – especially Trinitarian theology – is
“The will to win is not nearly as important as the will to prepare to win.” – Everyone from Vince Lombardi to Bear Bryant to Bobby Knight is cited as the source of this quote. The wisdom found in it has outlasted the origin. Everyone wants to win. It doesn’t matter how you define winning – career success, relationship goals met,
Unless you live in Cleveland, tear up your notes and call the worship pastor: this Sunday, your sermon will practically write itself. With phrases like, “‘Next year’ is finally today,” “the curse is broken,” and “‘someday’ is now,” your parishioners don’t have to be diehard baseball fans to appreciate the unbridled glee sweeping every corner of Chicago and most parts
One time as I came down from a platform during a church musical rehearsal, I passed several women and whispered, “I’ll be right back, I have got to go to the bathroom!” I rushed away and couldn’t hear the laughter that erupted behind me; the sound guy had not yet muted my lapel mic. My whisper had been heard throughout the sanctuary.
Sometimes we need a space where there is new room for the Holy Spirit: space in our lives, in our schedule, in our church building, in our preaching, in our house. For me, luckily enough – except it never seems to do with luck where new room is involved – this has been at the New Room Conference. In an
If you or I think of a laser, we probably have a mental image of what we might colloquially call a concentrated beam of light, whether it’s used recreationally like in laser tag or a laser light show, or practically like in an eye surgery or in cutting material. You might even picture the powerful ray from the Death Star in Star
Protestantism has hit a snag. Catholics have their challenges, but it’s a very different set. The Orthodox church in its various forms has its disputes but remains largely unchanged. North American Protestants have hit hard times, like an ecclesial version of the 2008 economic meltdown. We’ve printed Bible verses on magnets, screen printed t-shirts, run food pantries and epic VBS
The brilliance of the World Methodist Conference is still shifting through my mind, light through a suncatcher hanging on a window. The days in Houston were color, sound, faces, laughter, weeping, worship, intensity, frustration, revelation. I met people and forgot names. I met people and remembered names. I saw textiles woven with Methodist patterns, saris shimmering, archbishop caps velvety and
What neighborhood, out of all the ones you’ve lived in, has been your favorite? Was it a quiet small town street lined with tall trees? Was it a bustling corner of a large, noisy city? Was it a distant, rural farm, the air scratched with the clucking of chickens? Was it a small cottage on the edge of the windy
It is a season to weed and to water and to pluck from the vine. We are in the midst of Ordinary Time on the liturgical calendar – between Pentecost and Advent, “ordinary” sounds mundane. But if it is mundane, it can also be the beautiful kind of mundane, like a long-married couple sharing their morning coffee or a gardener
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