Author: Kate Murray

I’ve been thinking about hope a lot lately.

Most of this pondering has been spurred by the news reports that have come out of Haiti over the past two weeks.  If you haven’t heard by now, Haiti suffered a devastating 7.0 magnitude earthquake followed by several aftershocks that would normally be considered severe earthquakes in their own right.  Buildings have crumbled in Port-au-Prince, the nation’s capital, as well as the surrounding area.  Hundreds of thousands of people have died and many have been without food and water for days now.  All of this is on top of the fact that at least 70% of the population in that area already lived in extreme poverty.

I have friends who were in Haiti when the earthquake struck and have read and heard their accounts of watching people die literally in front of them.  They were surrounded by destruction and death.

And yet, many of the stories I continue to hear speak of hope in the midst of such a tragedy.

These same friends who witnessed the death and destruction of the earthquake, found hope in the people of Haiti – people who cared for them when they were originally there to care for them.  They joined the Haitians in singing songs to God, thankful for God’s presence in the midst of the chaos.

And then came the news stories of people being pulled out of the rubble alive.  First it was a seven year old boy and an eleven year old girl who were pulled out a week after the quake.  Then it was a five year old boy eight days after and a 22 year old man 10 days after.  The latest is a man who survived on soda for 11 days following the quake.

When do you give up hope?  When do you stop looking for your loved ones in the rubble with hope that they will still be alive?  By most accounts (especially the Haitian government which recently suspended rescue efforts), these people who have been pulled out should not have been found alive.  But they were!  I’m sure these stories of rescued survivors only spurs the hope of others still searching for the missing.

But it also spurs my hope.  Hope for a better future for the people of Haiti despite the current condition of the country.  Hope for a changed world – a world transformed by the God of Hope.  Hope that no matter how bad today may be, tomorrow will be better.  And if not tomorrow, then the next day.  Hope that even in the midst of death, God is still at work, giving life to all of us.

What, in your life, gives you hope?

Photo courtesy of kwerfeldein (rights)

Author: Bob Francis

Having just emerged from Christmas weekend, the idea of religious diversity is on my mind. Each year at this time, it seems like some of the classic “culture war” bug-a-boos raise their heads.  Is it “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas?”  Where exactly can one set up a nativity scene?  Is Kwanzaa now among the set of occasions included in this season of “holidays?”

Answering such questions is one of the challenges we face in a religiously diverse society.  I’m guessing that most folks can see the value of separating church and state and practicing religious non-discrimination and tolerance in the civil sphere of our shared life.  It makes sense to me, and as someone who works in an interfaith context, it also seems important to err on the side of inclusion in my public expressions of holiday cheer.

However, nativity scene placement and proper holiday greetings aside, I’m more interested in what we do with religious diversity in an existential sense.  I certainly want us all to get along, but how should we understand the different truth claims of different faith traditions?  Are all religions equal, or is one more “right” than another (or even the right one)?  Is each religion just a different cultural expression of the same basic human impulses for meaning, or are some gods true while others are false?  Do all paths lead to the same end?  Is there any external standard against which truth claims can be measured?

Over the holidays, I had a great conversation with some friends about these questions.  Needless to say, we didn’t reach any consensus, but the conversation was better than a second viewing of the stop-action animated Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (good as the first viewing was). Some among us, seeing how religious dogmatism has lead to intolerance, oppression, and even bloodshed, were very hesitant to concede that any religion should claim exclusivity or superiority.  Isn’t that just arrogance?  On what basis can any of us claim that one religion is right while all others are wrong?  I had a friend once say that any truth claim is an act of violence, a sentiment with which some in my conversation might agree.

But others, while acknowledging past wrongs in the name of religion, also had trouble with the alternative of there being no basis for making any distinctions between different religions at all.  After all, we all have values’ systems – whether religiously grounded or not – and make truth claims that we think should be valid for more people than just ourselves.  In that sense, aren’t we all guilty of the same “arrogance” of which religion stands so often accused?  And what do we do when religions (or non-religions) make competing claims?  Can all beliefs, even ones that seem in direct contradiction, be equally correct at once?  If not, on what basis can we decide between competing claims?  And besides, aren’t those who claim that no religion is universally valid making a universal claim about truth and reality themselves?

Hopefully, when we wish people “Happy Holidays,” we’re not just offering a generic, politically correct greeting, but we’re wishing others a fruitful and meaningful celebration of their holy days, whatever they may be.  For me, that greeting also prompts some of the deeper questions above, as well as the quandary of how one might make religiously-grounded truth claims in a diverse society while still seeking respect and peace.

I know it’s weighty, but maybe you’ll find that few moments pondering these questions this season is a nice diversion from family chit chat and deciding whether or not you have room for one more cookie.

Oh… and Happy Holidays!

image by zizzybaloobah (rights)

Author:  Mike Croghan

I grew up “unchurched”.  My family just weren’t churchgoers, so neither was I.  As a child, I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, but that was about the end of my association with the Church until seven years ago, when I was 31.  I had an experience of hospitality and giving in a Southern Baptist church in southwestern Arizona (ask me about it some time) which led me to Google “Episcopal church Vienna Virginia” when I got home.  And that led me to the life I have today:  Episcopal layperson, “emerging church” practitioner, and committed (if stumbling) attempted Jesus-follower.

One of the first things I did after joining my Episcopal church was to take a “Journey in Faith” course from my Rector there, Fr. Rick Lord.  This was sort of the “Church 101″ class, and to be honest, it wasn’t exactly riveting.  But one thing galvanized me, and set the course of my life from then on.  ”All baptized Christians”, Fr. Rick said, “are called to ministry.”  Wait, what?  What does that mean?  Not just the “ministers” are supposed to minister?  And what about this “calling” business?  Who’s supposed to be calling me?

I spent several years after this trying to discern what that “calling” might mean to me.  I tried a whole bunch of different things:  I took courses to learn more about God, and about myself.  I volunteered in local missions / service organizations, in my church’s Adult Christian Formation programs, and as an usher and greeter.  I tried to create – and eventually did help found – a “young adults” fellowship group.  I began learning about alternative worship, missional church, and emerging church – and eventually became a part of a church that embodies all of these things.

This journey has taught me many things, but one of them is this:  I…you…we are the church.  And the church takes many, many different forms.  Just within the last couple of weeks, I’ve been a part of:

• A worship service in which we confessed – in prose, poetry, and just plain words – those things that we are waiting for this Advent, and grooooaned together with the creation and the Holy Spirit (see Romans 8:18-27) for the fulfillment of that waiting.
• A group of young adult Episcopalians who gathered in an Irish pub to discuss a theology book over a few pints.
• A collection of “neo-monastic” Christians – single and married – trying to follow Jesus by living together in intentional community.
• A “cohort” gathering (also in a pub) of Christians called to conversation about the church that is currently “emerging”.

If you feel that God is calling you to be the church – to be ministers, servants, worshipers, theologians, redeemers, welcomers, lovers – in ways that you are not doing now – then do not wait for someone to tell you you can do it.  Do it.  Get permission if possible.  If necessary, just get forgiveness.  If you want help or ideas, contact me:  mike (at) rudetheology (dot) com.

This Advent season is drawing to a close, and on Christmas Day we’ll celebrate the coming of the one we’ve been waiting for.  But that One – he called disciples, followers.  And he’s still calling followers.  And he said (John 14:12) that those followers would do even greater things than he did.

If you’re feeling that calling to do things differently, then I want to say to you: answer.  Because the one we’ve been waiting for this Advent is Jesus.  But the ones we’ve been waiting for to answer our call to be his church?

That’s us.

image by pfv. (rights)

Author:  Philip Hirsch

Eighty emails were waiting in my inbox the other day, each in need of a reply.   I would send five and get seven back.  More stress.

I think Jesus stressed.  He would feed 5,000 for lunch and even more would show up the next day for dinner.  He would heal a man born blind and suddenly everywhere he went people pressed in on him for more.  So crushing were the crowds that his friends put him in a boat to be able to speak to them all.

In the middle of those very busy, hectic and pressing days, Jesus modeled something vital for us.   He would go to a quiet place to pray.  Sometimes alone and sometimes he would bring a couple of his friends with him.

On days of high stress, I feel like river water that has stirred up the bottom and all seems murky.  When life is like this, it’s hard to see clearly and love deeply.

The way of Jesus is one that expects busy lives that take on the deep problems of the world.  The purpose of Christianity is not to have perfect, balanced and peaceful lives.  We are called to mix it up in the world and work for justice and goodness and that means getting stressed out.

Peace comes when we take time to seek God’s presence.  This takes discipline because the times we need it the most are when we are most pressed for time.  It comes because we slow down enough to connect with the power of goodness, love and truth that we know of as Jesus Christ.

Connecting with the holy reminds me that I am not in control and that the world’s continued motion does not depend on me getting up in the morning a pushing.

It makes me think of the things that are really important, and those that are not.

Mostly, it just gives me a peace from knowing how deeply I am loved no matter how many emails I get to today.

image by Martin LaBar (rights)

Author: Kate Murray

Two weeks ago, the DC area experienced the joy of an unseasonably warm, sunny day and I decided to take full advantage of it.

I took my dog, Gus, down to the National Mall and walked around for an hour or so. We weaved around the Washington Monument and passed by the World War II Memorial. Off in the distance we could see Lincoln peering out between the columns that house him. Further up the Mall, somebody asked us for directions to the FDR Memorial and wondered if they were heading in the right direction to see Lincoln too.

As Gus and I walked that day, I thought about the early Israelites. I have been reading through the book of Joshua and the night before our walk had read chapter 4. Early in the chapter Joshua gathers twelve men, one from each of the tribes, and asks them to find a large stone in order that they might make a memorial. They wanted to remember where God had cut off the waters of the Jordan River and allowed them to pass.

Memorials are part of the city landscape here in DC, built so we remember various people, places, and events in our country’s history.

I wonder though, what are the memorials we build in our faith lives? Where can we point and tell our friends, family, and neighbors what God has done? Do they look more like buildings or stones, physical constructions? Or are they a bit less tangible, say the smile that reminds us of a good friend who sat with us after our grandfather died or a particular song that played while we were mucking out houses during hurricane relief?

What are the things we can and do point to in the world that remind us and those who come after us that God was here?

I’ve begun to wonder, specifically in my own life, what these memorials look like. What I can come back to when I need to be reminded that God has been and is active in my life.

I’m finding them mostly to be intangible things: smells, songs or hymns, and memories. But occasionally something a bit more tangible reminds me of a time I encountered God – something like Juarez, Mexico where I spent a fair amount of time meeting the people who live there and building houses for those who couldn’t afford them. I can now point to those houses as concrete markers of God’s presence.

What are those memorials for you in your relationship with God?

Photo courtesy of dailyjoe (rights)

Author: Stephen Zeller

While visiting the doctor’s office recently, I did what most of us do there… wait. And while I was waiting I picked up a Newsweek magazine that was nowhere near current and started flipping. The first article that caught my eye and made me pause was a story on the dismissed Evangelical preacher, Ted Haggard. Remember him? He is the former pastor of the 14,000-member New Life Church in Colorado, as well as president of the National Association of Evangelicals, who was accused of having a drug-filled affair with a male prostitute.

So the story talked about how when the allegations arose, after a time of Haggard denying all charges, the church that he led asked him to step down and leave. But not just leave. He was forced to sign a contract to never step foot into that church again, and leave Colorado. LEAVE THE STATE OF COLORADO! I didn’t even know that was possible.

No matter what your opinion of Pastor Haggard may be, I think you can see where I’m going with this. Of course prostitution and drug usage isn’t something that should be handled lightly, but kicked OUT OF the church?

Houston, we have a problem. Since when was it our job to say who is allowed in the doors of the church? Yes, leaders must be accountable for their actions, but don’t you think they deserve a little mercy also? And this isn’t just about church leaders; this relates to everyone. At the time when someone is struggling the most in their life, and seeking help and support from others, and needing the church more than ever, they get shown the door. The old saying comes to mind that “a church shouldn’t be a museum of saints but rather a hospital for sinners,” um, which by the way is everyone.

This story seems all too commonplace. The church is missing the mark on this one more often than not. How often have you seen someone get hurt by, or been dismissed by, the church because they made a mistake? Or even, *gasp*, sinned! Maybe it was you that got hurt. What exactly is the church’s mission if it doesn’t walk with, help find healing for, forgive and love those who are hurting and yearning for something more? Unfortunately, I think this stereotype of the church often overshadows all the good stuff and real ministry that happens.

Isn’t the church supposed to continue the ministry of Jesus in this world? Aren’t WE supposed to continue the ministry of Jesus in this world, by loving our neighbor as ourselves? I can still picture the faces of friends who were hurting because of what the church did, or didn’t do, to them. Their pain became my pain, and it should be all our pain. Jesus said, “Just as you did it to the least of these you did it to me.” I know I personally forgot this now and then, so I’m sure I can speak for many of us that holding each other to account on this is seriously important.

Churches need to remember to keep their doors, hearts and minds open to those who are in pain and need the love and support of a caring community.

Since his “banishment,” Haggard has been allowed to return to his home in Colorado, but has yet to step foot inside a church because of the fear of bringing more bad press to his family or church. This certainly isn’t a direct accusation against him, but should serve as a wake up call for us all.

Image by Sidereal (rights)

Author: Meredith Lovell Keseley

This week as many of us our just gearing up for our Thanksgiving feasts, the Washington Post reported some unsettling news.  They reported on a new federal report “which shows that nearly 50 million people — including almost one child in four — struggled last year to get enough to eat.”  (View the complete article here.)  The report put the feasting that will take place next week into perspective.  Many of us, myself included, will indulge in too much turkey along with an extra helping of mashed potatoes or pumpkin pie.  At the same time, though, there will be others in our communities whose stomachs will be growling.  Food will be on everyone’s mind.  Some will think about the abundance of it on their table while others will think of the scarcity of it in their stomachs.

As Christians around the country gather for worship this Thanksgiving, their scripture text will be from Matthew’s gospel.   Christians will hear Jesus say, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? ²⁶Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?”

Do not worry about what we will eat or what we will drink.  Is Jesus serious?  How can we not worry about what we will eat this time of year?  How can we not concern ourselves with the disparity between the feasting and the hungry?  How can we not be anxious about food, whether it is about how much or how little of it will be on our tables, especially at a time like this?  On the one hand, Jesus seems to have never tried to host 25 people for Thanksgiving dinner.  On the other hand, he seems to have never experienced real physical hunger.  We know that at times like these, food is one everyone’s mind.

Worry, Jesus suggests, is not the answer.  Worry won’t make the turkey cook faster.  Worry won’t stretch the bowl of mashed potatoes so that they make it the whole way around the table.  Worry won’t fill hungry stomachs.

God, on the other hand, is the answer.  God will provide.  God will provide in moments of abundance and God will provide in moments of scarcity.  For those with abundance, God will provide opportunities for sharing.   For those experiencing hunger, God will provide opportunities to be fed.  And, in the end, God will provide a banquet feast where all will have a place and all will have plenty.

Worry won’t get us anywhere this holiday season, but action will.  Our action of giving to and receiving from one another, sharing in moments of feasting and in moments of scarcity with one another, will get us somewhere.  So, too, will God’s action in the world, bringing about God’s kingdom and that day when all will be fed.

Image by Mr. T in DC (rights)

Author: Robert Francis

Every Monday night, I gather with some friends for dinner. This weekly ritual began a couple of years ago at the suggestion of a friend who was interested in sharing food, fellowship, and some sort of spiritual practice. As a collection of transient, mostly single 20- and 30-somethings, many of the faces in our group have changed since the first gathering, but we’ve never lacked a critical mass committed to getting together. Recently, we decided to add a book discussion to our weekly routine. Our first book has been The Shack by William Paul Young.

Have you heard of The Shack? Written by an Oregon salesman and self-published by two former pastors with a $300 marketing budget, The Shack has gone from pet project to New York Times Bestseller.  It now boasts over 5 million copies in print, at least according to the front cover of my copy. That doesn’t seem hard to believe, given the fact that I got my copy courtesy of a couple earnest members of a local community church, who were handing them out for free by the stack at our local Metro stop. Like The DaVinci Code, The Shack seems to be part book and part cultural phenomenon. Even though some of us in the group had some misgivings about reading something so “popular” and not-so-veiled in its proselytizing posture, given the book’s popularity, we thought we may as well see for ourselves what all the hype was about.

The Shack tells the story of Mackenzie “Mack” Phillips, a married father of four, who endures an unspeakable tragedy when his youngest daughter is abducted and apparently brutally murdered. After four years of grief, Mack finds himself invited back to the scene of the tragedy, apparently by God.  What ensues – and what comprises most of the book – is Mack’s encounter with God, who takes on forms one might not expect.  Not surprisingly, this encounter centers upon Mack’s trauma and the age-old question of the problem of evil.  As the book jacket asks, “Where is God in a world so filled with unspeakable pain?”

You’ll have to read The Shack to best judge for yourself the author’s take on this question.  However, since the book’s self-description makes no secret of its intentions, it isn’t playing spoiler to tell you that the author thinks that the existence of God – and even an infinitely loving, good God – isn’t incompatible with the evil we see around us (or in ourselves). In fact, it might be the one thing that helps make sense of all this pain. Mack, though resistant, ultimately finds God’s presence at the center of the most painful loss in his life.

The problem of pain may seem like heavy dinnertime conversation (and maybe we’ll choose lighter fare for our next book), but it isn’t as foreign for most of us as one might think.  Despite the somewhat younger age of our group, we bear our share of scars. One of us is a cancer survivor; a couple of us have already lost parents; we have seen divorces, suicide attempts, and other traumas among those we love; and we all have any number of our own hidden hurts, insecurities and uncertainties.

You’ll get wildly different answers among our group as to whether or not The Shack’s answers to the problem of pain are compelling.  But maybe more important than whether or not we all agree is the fact that we get together to talk about such things, including sharing some of those hurts and pains. While we all have much for which to be thankful, pain and trauma will also continue to also be part of our lives – it’s an unavoidable part of the human condition.  But it’s nice to know that every Monday I’ll be cracking open some wine, sitting around a dinner table, and sharing this journey with friends.

image by Professor Bop (rights)

Author: Mike Croghan

Last weekend, I was privileged to participate in a conference in Minneapolis called Christianity21. The idea was this: 21 presenters were given 21 minutes each to share with us a bit of their vision for Christianity in the 21st century. And oh by the way, each of the presenters was female.

This was not a women’s conference. Participants – and we were indeed participants, not just attendees – seemed to be split about 50/50 by gender. Nor was it a conference about “women’s issues” in the Church. The visions shared by the presenters did expand the conversation into areas related to gender, incarnation, and sexuality which I have not seen explored before in a church conference. And the emotional depth of the content was unusually powerful – it packed a wallop from which I am still recovering. But the theological and practical issues explored were broad and deep and applicable to anyone and everyone attempting to follow Jesus in this time of unprecedented change.

There’s a lot I could say about the remarkable people I met, learned from, and was changed by during those three or four days in Minnesota, but given limited space I’m just going to focus on one change in myself since last weekend: I’m having a crisis of faith.

During that weekend, many of us – presenters and participants alike – told parts of our stories to one another. Some of those stories were told in front of a room full of hundreds of people. Others in intimate groups of two or three.

And during that weekend, I guess I heard one too many stories of people – achingly beautiful, powerful, radiant people – who had been royally screwed over by the universe. There’s no other way to put it. These people, many of whom I’m blessed to call my friends, have been worked over by life in ways that make my heart break. Some because of their gender. Some because of their sexuality. Some because of their ethnicity. Some due to “bad luck” or misplaced trust or simply being born into a terrible situation. And without exception, these people had somehow lived through this to become loving, giving, whole and healthy human beings. Not that they aren’t messed up – we all are. But somehow they’d lived – really lived – through that.  And that survival was invariably bound up with the experience of being loved…and somehow believing that that love was real.

Of course I know and love lots of people with stories like that. But for some reason, last weekend pushed me over a precipice, and forced me to look at my life.

I am someone who pours a considerable amount of time and energy into volunteer work, most of it church-related. And the vast bulk of that time and energy, I’m forced to admit, is focused on “us” – we who are already warm and safe and on the inside. If my work is outward-directed, it’s usually merely meant to meet folks’ material needs – not to demonstrate the scandalous message that’s at the heart of the gospel: you are loved. It doesn’t matter what came before. You are loved.

This got me thinking about the beatitudes. The Gospels record two different lists of “blesseds” from Jesus: one in Luke 6, where Jesus says “blessed are the poor”; the other in Matthew 5, where Jesus says, “blessed are the poor in spirit”. For years, I’ve assumed that old Matthew had merely embellished the more accurate memory recorded in Luke. Surely Jesus was really talking about the literal poor, and “poor in spirit” is just, well, spiritualizing Jesus’ more earthy message.

But since last weekend, I’ve been thinking: maybe both versions really are what Jesus meant. Maybe “the poor in spirit” are the same as “those who’ve been screwed over by the universe.” Maybe that’s what makes you poor in spirit. Unless it leaves you irreversably broken.

Of course, “the poor” are a prime example of “the screwed over”, but “the screwed over” is a larger category than “the poor”. I feel like sometimes we churchy types beat ourselves up because we are so bad at connecting with “the poor”, and end up paralyzed into inaction. And I certainly don’t want to avoid opportunities for solidarity with people who are poor. But right now I’m meditating on the meaning of the Matthew version of that beatitude and thinking that there are many, many folks who have been abused by the universe. Not all of them are “poor”. And for all the volunteer hours I put in – for all my effort to put my privilege as a straight, white, American male to good use – almost none of those hours are spent connecting with folks in ways that demonstrate this truth: no matter what has gone before, we are loved.

That needs to change.

(And it’s true: the “we”, the “us”, the people who are, for the most part, safe and warm and on the inside – we also are, have been, will be screwed over by the universe. And how much more should that truth drive us to find and love others just like us?)

I’m not sure where I’m going to go from here, but I know one thing: wherever it is, the people who accompany me on this journey will be the Church. Not necessarily any particular church institution or denomination. Not necessarily people who would even affiliate with a church. This loving, reconciling work is done all the time by folks of any faith and of no faith.

But after last weekend, this is something I know in a deep place: this is the work of the Church. To connect with folks whom the universe has treated like its personal latrine, and somehow help them see the gospel, the good news. “You are loved; you are embraced.” Sometimes the Church gets busy with other work. Sometimes the Church is even the institution doing the screwing over. But in every one of my friends’ stories last weekend, the people who showed them this gospel – who somehow enabled them to believe that they are loved – these people were the Church. And this is the work of the Church.

And please, please help us, God. There is so much work to be done.

image by Stitch (rights)

Author: Phil Hirsch

If the music you heard playing while riding an escalator at a Metro station was performed by one of the worlds best violinists playing one of the most beautiful instruments ever made, do you think you would notice?

A Washington Post reporter suggested the idea to Joshua Bell, one of the world’s premier violinists, while interviewing him. Would people in the middle of their morning commute stop in awe or pass right by a talent so rare and music so beautiful that people would pay him $1000 a minute at a concert hall? On the morning of January 12, 2007 they set up at the top of the escalator and he played some of the more difficult and beautiful pieces he knew.

More than a thousand people passed by Joshua Bell playing his $3.5 million dollar Stradivarius at L’Enfant Plaza, few paid much attention (or gave much money, except one who recognized him from the concert the night before.)

It turns out that context matters when appreciating beauty and, I think, life.

If we saw a real Monet hanging at the Starbucks, would it draw our attention the same way it does in the museum? What other beautiful things, miracles of creation, do we pass every day and pay no mind to because they are in the context of the ordinary? If God where present in the person riding next to us on the escalator, would we notice? All around us are incredible, beautiful things but we risk seeing little of them if we don’t see the big picture.

One of the ways we have to help us slow down and examine our lives in context is the practice of worship. When we gather together with others for this purpose, we are seeking to understand life in a broader view than our own. We listen to the ancient story of how people have seen themselves as a part of a movement of God over the centuries. It is a movement that involves truth and goodness and beauty and us.

Living in the context of that bigger picture allows us to better appreciate all that is around us and even the music we ourselves create.

Photo courtesy of m-c (rights)