This is the new, more honest, Fair Trade logo. According to a local store owner I talked to, the old logo has loosened their standards for what is deemed “Fair Trade.”
Halloween is supposed to be scary. Chocolate shouldn’t be.
It is Halloween season again, and soon kids across the country will be going from house to house in search of treats. There will be scary decorations and fun costumes. Some will watch scary movies. Some will go to haunted houses. It is fun to be scared – especially in a safe way.
On Friday night at my church, we will be hosting a Trunk or Treat. It is meant to be a community outreach. Kids have been invited to come and trick or treat in our church parking lot. We have many volunteers that will come to give out candy. There will be games and crafts as well. I’ll be brewing hot chocolate and coffee. We also plan on having brochures to give to parents about our church’s children ministries. We’re hoping that many kids come and have a great time.
I’m pretty sure that not one of those kids will have spent the day working in hot tropical fields, wielding machetes and being exposed to harmful pesticides. I think it’s a safe bet that none of the children getting their chocolate treats were sold into work camps by their parents, desperate to provide for siblings that are starving.
Unfortunately, such an existance is common place in West Africa, where the majority of the world’s exported cocoa beans are grown. Equal Exchange is one group that is making a difference in the world by fighting poverty at its root. By bringing the products of small farms to consumers in the United States, Equal Exchange has been able to empower people to maintain economic stability. Their Interfaith Store is a way for churches and individuals to buy products that they can trust – and feel good about.
We will set up a special table to tell people about Fair Trade chocolate. I’ve bought a bunch of chocolate bars for people to sample. The coffee and hot chocolate is Equal Exchange brand. I bought all the chocolate and coffee and a great little store in Davenport called SIS International Shop. Most big towns (Peoria, Champaign, Bloomington, Davenport, Moline and several in Chicago area) have a shop like the SIS International Shop. It might be too late for this Halloween, but Christmas is coming. Search for a Fair Trade shop in your area. Ten Thousand Villages is another great resource. Here is their store locator, but click on the “listing for all shops in the US” don’t use the locator by Zip Code or State.
You probably don’t recognize the name Derek Redmond. You might recognize his story though. He was a sprinter in 1992 Barcolona Olympics. He was the British record holder and a contender to do well in the 400m. He had an injury-plagued career, but as he prepared for the most important 45 seconds of his life, the announcer claimed that he was in the “best form he’d shown.” About 15 seconds into the race, he tore his hamstring. He crumpled to the ground in pain. If that was the end of his race, no one would remember Derek Redmond, but as a trainer started to attend to him, Redmond got up and started limping around the track. He was determined to finish what he had begun. He was determined to finish the lap.
As he limped around the track, fans started to cheer. Several attendants approached him, but he waved them off. He was alone on the track. A wide shot of him in the video below reveals a strange scene – one man hobbling and barely able to stand, not the usual group of amazing athletes speeding along the curve. As he comes around the turn, the crowd is cheering him on. They understand what he is trying to do. They admire him for it. But then something else happens. Something extraordinary. Something that until recently, I don’ t think I really understood. Watch below.
A man comes out on the track. We don’t see what he had to do to get on the track. We do see him push past one person that tries to stop him. He puts his arm around the wounded athlete, and the recognition on Derek Redmond’s face helps us understand. This is his father.
This is his father who he drapes his arm around. Suddenly, the emotions of the moment catch up to the pain and Derek Redmond buries his face in his father’s chest. His father is now literally holding him up as another attendant comes. This time the guy is more adamant, but there is nothing that is going to take the boy from his father. You can almost read his lips, as he waves the man away, “Get the hell out of here!” is what I think he says.
The two finish the race together while the stadium rose to its feet in appreciation for what they had witnessed. Afterward, the father says, “Whatever happened, he had to finish. And I was there to help him finish. I intended to go over the line with him. We started his career together. I think we should finish it together.”
Derek Redmond is now a motivational speaker. On his website, he gives an interview where he describes his father as “My motivator, my hero, my pal, my bodyguard, my physio and my masseur some days.” I have seen this video of him and his Dad before, but the other day I watched again – perhaps for the first time as a father myself. I started thinking about Derek Redmond’s Dad.
My girls are too young to participate in competitive sports, but I’ve already began to dream about what their future holds. I think about their lives as dancers, athletes, students, friends. I think about the relationships they’ll make, the people they’ll know, the places they’ll go, and the accomplishments that await them. Is the Olympics in their future? Who knows?
As a father I can dream with them. I can dream for them. I can imagine myself watching my daughter in the biggest moment of her life. I can already be nervous, waiting for her chance to shine. I do not know what her dreams will be, but I can imagine being at the cusp of them, ready to emerge victorious.
What would it be like to be watching your son or your daughter run in the most important 45 seconds of their life, and then come up injured. How much would it hurt to see her body lying on the ground, broken; her race over; her career over; her dream over? How much would it hurt to think of the hours of practice, the trips to the gym, the diets, the training, the injuries, the coaching, the sacrifices that had all come to this point, and end with her crumpled on the ground waiting for the stretcher to carry her off the track so they could keep the schedule of the rest of the event?
Then, what would it feel like to see her get up? I remember the first time she fell off of her bike, and I remember with pride the moment she got back on her bike and kept going.
As I watch this video of Derek Redmond hobbling around the track I can see my daughters, struggling to finish something that they set out to achieve. When I dream their future, I don’t dream of them victorious. I dream of them courageous. I don’t dream of them with accolades and fame and money. I dream of them with conviction and perseverance and strength.
And when I see Derek Redmond collapse into the loving arms of his father, I dream that someday I will be able to be there for my daughters. I hope beyond hope that when they face a obstacle in their life that feels bigger than they can handle, that I will be able to be there for them. I hope this in part because I know what it feels like to collapse into the loving arms of my Dad.
The fact remains, I might not always be there for them. So I live every day teaching, praying, reading, dancing, laughing, and crying with them so that they know, and that they will always know that their Daddy loves them. More importantly, I do these things so that they know, and that they will ALWAYS know that our Father, Son, and Holy Spirit loves them. Amen.
Photo taken by my good friend Rev. Scott Elliott. This is part of a mural in a Sunday school room. The original art is by Steve Selpal and the gifted artists who painted it were Steve, Anita Knapp Kidney, Lizzy Knapp and Emily Knapp.
I’m wondering. Did our world change, or just our perspective of it? In many ways, the answer is obvious, and it runs deeper than longer lines at the airport and more flags flying from front porches. Two wars have been fought. Thousands have died. The lives of the families of those that were lost were changed in ways I cannot even fathom. Billions have been spent. Countless tears have been shed. There are many ways the world has changed. We live in a more fearful era. There is less trust. There is more resentment.
Yet at the same time I can’t help but wonder if the world really changed, or just the way we see it. There was terror on September 10, 2001. There were people that hated America. There were people that feared Muslims. There was injustice. Innocents died. People mourned. We have a tendency to look back at our country before 9-11 and glamorize it. Listening to the accounts of the day makes me wonder if people think that economic turmoil, political upheaval, and fearful lashing out with violence are new to the world.
We live in a September 12 world, and we are keenly aware of this world’s problems, but they were not invented on that terrible day. We continue to struggle with the events of September 11 and wonder when we may get past it. We wonder how long we will live in fear? How long will we live with resentment? How long will we live in suspicion? When will September 13 come? When will healing come? When will peace come? Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! (Psalm 130).
As Christians, none of this should come as a surprise. We live most of our lives in a Saturday world. Saturday is the day of waiting. It is after the terror of Friday and before the joy of Sunday. It lies in the midst of fear and speculation. Most of the disciples responded to Jesus’ death as most humans would. They ran. They hid. They locked themselves in a room and wondered, “When are they coming for us? How long will we live in fear? How long will we live with resentment? How long will we live in suspicion?” They might have remembered the promises of Jesus while he walked with them, but all they could see were the lashes on his back and the crown of thorns on his head. All they could hear were his cries of pain. All they could taste were their own tears. All they could touch was the cold and lifeless body of their teacher, their friend, their Messiah.
How long must we live in Saturday? How long must we live in September 12?
I’m not sure I can answer that question. I know this: The disciples didn’t come out of that locked room on their own. It took the resurrected Jesus to break through the barriers that men built. It took the risen Lord to overcome their fear and their doubt. It took the loving arms of the Son of God to set them free and send them into the world to set others free.
In the few days that followed the attacks on 9/11, none of us really had a choice. We were deep in the shock of sadness and fear. I remember being glued to the TV for hours on end with tears dried on my face. I remember coming to grips with the fact that my freedom and safety was in jeopardy. My world changed that day, or was it just my perspective? Did I finally awaken to the reality of the world that had so long been easy to ignore?
Ten years later, we all have a choice. The shock has long worn off, so now we have the ability to choose. With what perspective are we going to look at the world? I have lived through the pain of Good Friday. I have waited through the despair of Saturday, and I have risen with Jesus in glorious resurrection on Sunday. I know there is much to do. I know we are not there yet, but I have been shown the way.
So now, in the midst of our September 12 world, we must choose. In your own September 12 world, which do you choose? Hope or despair? Understanding or ignorance? Mercy or vengeance? Reconciliation or bitterness? Grace or judgment? Justice or oppression?
Pastor: As you go back to college, we pray a special blessing upon you.
All: We have enjoyed your presence with us this summer. Your youth and your faith give us hope for a better future.
Pastor: We call now upon the Holy Spirit to raise you up and keep you strong, safe, and secure.
All: We pray for your safety and for your growth. We thank God for your gifts and for this wonderful time of adventure and excitement in your lives.
Pastor: We seek the Holy Spirit to keep your parents confident and at peace.
All: We pray for your parents and families, for we know there is no greater risk than to allow children to grow. We will do our best to support them with our presence and our prayers.
Pastor: All this we pray in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, Amen.
An Illinois country road. Photo by DeWayne Neeley. Click on the picture to go to his Flickr site.
A long time ago I wrote a sermon about a bike ride through the cornfields of central Illinois. It was one of my favorite things to do when I lived in Chenoa. I would turn left out of our driveway and just keep going. It wouldn’t take long before I was on a road that looked a lot like the one pictured.
When the corn was high, riding a bike down a narrow road like this was a slighltly harrowing experience because I couldn’t really see where I was. When you’re in the middle of one of these corn canyons, you can see where the road leads – at least until the next hill – and that’s about it. When the corn is high, you can’t really see anything but corn and sky.
That is partly why I loved those bike rides so much. It was so peaceful and so calm. I spent a lot of time in prayer on those country roads. The reason I said it was harrowing, however, is because I could be riding along with cornfields on boths sides for quite some time. And while country roads were usually straight, they were not always a dependable grid. Some were deadends. Some veered in directions I didn’t really mean to go. Some took me to the highway (and if you ever want a lesson in white-knuckled prayer, ride your bike on a busy country highway – with semi trucks passing you at 60 miles and hour).
It could be really easy to get turned around amidst all the fields and right angles. Yet no matter where I rode, I always knew that I could see the water tower. As long as I could see the water tower, I knew I could get back home. The water tower is the tallest thing poking out of the grove of trees that is Chenoa. Whenever I rode – I knew I could make it home if I could see the water tower. That is why those moments in the corn canyons were a little unsettling.
In life, we can go down a lot of roads. Sometimes were are heading away from home. Sometimes we are meandering around aimlessly. Sometimes we hit dead ends, or go on courses we didn’t intend. Sometimes we get turned around. Sometimes we hold on white-knuckled just praying that things will be okay. That is why it is so important to have that water tower – raising over it all, showing us the way home.
To me, that is church. It is the place to which I can always turn. It is not perfect. The church has made mistakes – some historic, some personal. The church has hurt people, hurt families, hurt nations. Yet as far as I’m concerned, it is our best hope. It is the best hope we have of finding our way. It is the beacon that calls us home.
At its best the church is a place of love. If the church is being what Christ intended it to be, the church is a place of forgiveness, grace, invitation and mission. It is a place to be fed, empowered and sent out. It is the oasis of the Kingdom of God. When I think of the churches I have been a part of, I don’t think of buildings or decor. I don’ t think of great sermons or well-organized Bible study. I don’t think of perfect liturgy or music. I think of love.
I think of people that cared for me as a child. I think of people that loved me as an adult. I think of people that helped guide me into ministry, that picked me up when I failed and allowed me to grow. I think of people that loved me like parents and were grandparents to my daughters. When I think of when the church has hurt me I do not think of wrong theology, or boring sermons, or bad music. When the church has hurt me it has been when people failed to live up to the commandment Christ has given us – love one another as Christ has loved us. Yet before I let the anger, resentment and hurt feelings get the better of me, I remember that I have failed to love as well. I am in need of forgiveness for my carelessness, my thoughtlessness and my selfishness.
Through it all, I have found love in the church. My heart breaks for those that have been wronged by the church. My heart yearns for those that seek and do not find. I don’t know where you are on your journey. I don’t presume to know the path you need to take. All I know is what I have found. I have found a place to hold onto. I have found a water tower in the bike ride of my life – showing me the way to get back home. I pray you find your way home too.
The Starry Night, by Vincent van Gogh from the NYC MoMA
On a beautiful evening in northern Michigan, I was laying on the beach. I was surrounded by most of the people I love in this world. My daughter lay asleep on a towel. My other daughter was wrapped in the loving arms of a family member. The sun had set. The sky had done its marvelous shift from blue to red to purple. The stars were beginning to appear and slowly. Almost imperceptibly, more were making their debut. It is a scene that has been repeated since the dawn of humanity. A group of people, surrounded in love, adoring the awesome specter of a night sky.
I don’t know about the rest of my family, but I knew that I was participating in the oldest form of religious ritual. For as long as humanity has been walking, eyes have turned skyward at night. The seemingly endless chaos of stars in the sky has inspired awe and wonder a thousand generations. My little human mind started to do what little human minds do – I started to label and categorize. I remembered little snippets of my Astronomy 101 class and was able to identify the Big Dipper, the North Star, Cassiopeia. I thought to myself, “I think that might be Mars.” We strained to see satellites, and were envious of those that caught a glimpse of a shooting star. Even though my analytical mind knew that was not a shooting star, but a piece of space debris being burned in our atmosphere, my wondering mind wished I could catch a glimpse of one. I was lost in a sense of wonder and astonishment, and couldn’t help but ask myself that age-old question, “How many stars are there?” I tried in vain to count, but gave up quickly. “I wonder what that bright star is?” I wondered. “Is that a constellation?” I thought to myself.
Then someone, perhaps wondering the same things as me, pulled out their iphone. In an instant they were using it to look at the stars, and it was telling them the names of each constellation, each bright star, each planet, each galaxy and nebula. It was an amazing little app (and it was free). There, on secluded beach in the midst of my naive wonder, technology came in to save the day.
My wonder was gone. And yet, it was really gone before the iphone appeared. I know that there are more stars in the sky than I can count. Google can tell me there are between 2,000 and 6,000 on any given clear night that we can see with no aid. I know that what we can see is but a tiny speck in the greater universe. There are about 100-200 billion stars in our galaxy, and we inhabit an average galaxy. Conservative estimates say there are about 100-200 billion galaxies.
In ancient times people gazed at the stars and thought that they must be hung in the sky from a firm dome that covers the earth. There were a few odd “moving stars,” and they just increased the sense of amazement. Today we know better. We know that stars are out in a seemingly infinite thing called “space.” We know that there are more stars than we could ever name or group into neat little patterns. We know that stars are not tiny pins of light, but instead are giant gaseous nuclear reactions. We know that the stuff from which we are made – elements – are created in the great furnaces of stars, and more are made in the cataclysmic explosions that occur when stars die.
There are thousands of other mysteries that we have explained, riddles that we have unravelled, questions that we have answered. All of our progress and discovery has taken us places that seemed unfathomable only a few generations ago. In the span of 66 years humans went from Kitty Hawk to the moon. As more and more is explained, there seems to be less and less need for God. The myths of our ancestors, used to explain things like sunset and sunrise, seem like silly childhood stories. More and more people ask, “Who needs God?” Besides being the title of a wonderful book by Harold Kushner, this is a question that has been on the minds of modern people for decades.
I cannot answer that question for you. Maybe you don’t need God. I think it is perfectly possible to live a full, rich life without ever believing in God. I also believe, however, that there is something in us that yearns for more. I need God because when I look at the stars at night I see from two distinct perspectives.
When I gaze up into the stars I may, at the same time, participate in two of the most basic human instincts. I desire to name, count, label and categorize. There is a part of my humanity that makes me want to know more. It is a driving curiosity that makes me want to get a star map. I feel comfort in being able to order the seemingly chaotic universe. I feel comfort in knowing that there is not pure mystery. Discovery and advancement is a holy work. Science, knowledge, technology have given us many wonderful gifts. I am in awe of the capability of the human mind to create and of the human will to advance. Yet there is something in me that is equally human that knows that there is more up in the stars than a vast collection of hydrogen gasses and nuclear reactions.
I stop and wonder at the sheer magnitude of it all. I wonder about my own place in this vast and seemingly chaotic universe. I am drawn into a deep conviction that there is more to all of this than one life. There is more to this world than even our collective lives. While at the same time feeling dwarfed by it all, I am strengthened in knowing that I have a place in it. There is something for me here to do. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I know that it has a lot to do with loving one another. I lay down on a beach surrounded by people I love and know that there is something powerful and real that is surrounding us. I may not be able to name it. I may never understand it, but I know it is real.
And for me, this is the beauty of being human. You can call it the analytic and artistic – the objective and subjective – the intellect and the emotion – the yin and the yang. I call it the sublime paradox of being human. It is the mystery of faith – the drive to advance, to know, and to understand, held in juxtaposition with the humility of surrender, knowing that there are some places our intellect will not be able to bring us. Ultimately it is there – the place where humanity’s drive to be more, and our humility to seek God, that is our greatest hope. It is there – between the extremes of religious fundamentalist tyranny and amoral scientific advancement – that the Kingdom of God is realized.
“The Five Thousand” by Eularia Clark, 1962. Click on the image to be taken to the Methodist Church Collection of Modern Christian Art.
As an athlete, one of my favorite times was the few moments before a game. I loved the anticipation of getting ready – putting on the uniform just right, lacing up the shoes, sharing eye contact with a teammate communicating a sense of common purpose in nothing more than a nod. I loved getting ready with music playing. It was like I was in my own movie, and the song I chose was my soundtrack.
Today I go through a similar ritual before worship. I get myself ready. I breathe a little deeper. My adrenaline starts to flow. I sit in my office for a few moments, and sometimes I crank up the music. Often it is the same song: Come to the Feast, by Christopher Grundy (Grundy is professor at Eden Theological Seminary and a great musician. You should go to the link and listen to and buy his music).
“Come to the Feast” speaks to the heart of the gospel. “Come to the feast. There’s always room for one more and there’s all you can eat. Come and take some to go. Gather all you can hold and then go. Go spread the feast.” We are a people of the feast. We are a people of the Table.
At the heart of everything we do as Christians is the table of Jesus Christ. How we think about the table informs how we think about everything else. Where does the pastor stand? Behind the table in a gesture of welcome and inclusion, not with her back to the congregation.
What do we serve? Bread and grape juice as a sign of hospitality to those that cannot have alcohol.
Who is invited? Everyone. Children? Yes. They may not understand what is going, but then again, are we kidding ourselves if we think we do understand?
Unbaptized? Yes. The moment of communion is so powerful that it can be a moment of conversion and transformation.
Democrats and Republicans? Yes. We don’t bar you for voting a certain way.
Rich and Poor? Yes – and they each get the same amount.
Black and White? Yes, although we repent for times when this wasn’t true.
Gay and Straight? Yes, for God created all and said it is “good.”
The Lord’s Table is a table for all. On it holds the feast which has transformed lives. On it rests the bread that has been broken for us all. Jesus broke the bread and told us to “do this in remembrance of me.” It was not simply to remember that Jesus’ body was broken. It was remember that his body held life. When we break the bread we are to remember that Jesus was more than a sacrificial lamb led to the slaugher.
When we hear “Do this in remembrance of me,” we should hear Jesus saying: “When we got together in the home of tax collectors and sinners – Remember that. When the women came to me and broke free from their man-made roles of servitude – Remember that. When you guys tried to keep the children from getting to me, and I said ‘let them come’ – Remember that. When we sat in the crowd of 5,000 people and all we had were five loaves and two fish and you all thought there was no way that we would have enough, and then everyone ate – Remember that.”
“Remember when the Pharisees tried to use the Law to put up barriers between who is in and who is out – Remember that I broke those barriers as easily as I break this bread. When they used the Law to condemn and tried to trap me in legal issues – Remember when they asked me what was the greatest commandment, hoping that I would trip on my words – Remember what I told them?”
“And things aren’t looking good right now. The Romans and the leaders are coming. They are going to beat me and crucify me. After that happens I want you to remember me at this table saying to you, my body is broken for you. And when I come back, maybe then you will get it. Maybe then you will finally see. Maybe then you understand all the things I did and said and showed you. I break the bread so that you may have life.”
When we come to the Table of Christ we are invited to a feast. We are invited to a table of plenty. We are invited without merit. We are invited without deed. We are simply invited to come and be loved.
But when we are invited to come to the feast, it is imperative to remember that we are also sent. We are not invited to get full and go home fat and satisfied. We are invited to be fed so that we may feed. We are invited to forgiveness so that we may forgive. We are invited to be empowered so that we may go out and empower. So, as the words of the song so elegantly say, “Come and then go. Go spread the feast.”
“Come to the Feast” is (c) by Hand and Soil Music. Visit www.christophergrundy.com to listen to more music.
From Top Left: Winking smiley, the twitter bird, the cross and flame of the United Methodist Church, hulu, The logo for the greatest blog ever written, the Orwellian behemoth known as Google, an iphone, the logo for Riverside United Methodist Church, another winking smiley, Oh My Gosh (cry of astonishment), facebook, youtube, Laugh Out Loud (something people are rarely doing when they type those letters) an icon for a Bible iphone app, Yahoo.
I wonder how many people would be able to look at the picture above and know what all of these pictures mean. Considering one of the images is the logo from this blog, and another is the logo from my church, I’m guessing that very few would know all of them. I wonder though, how many from our churches would know what the little blue bird represents? How many people in our congregations haven’t the slightest idea what a tweet is?
Many of the same people who are (sometimes proudly) technophobic, digging in their heals against the use of social media, technology, and other new forms of communication, are also despondent about the lack of young people sitting amongst them in their pews. They talk longingly of the “good old days” when the churches were full and the Sunday school was bustling, and the building was growing, and the budgets were plentiful (never mind that the good old days also included silence on issues like domestic violence, racial equality, and an utter lack of understanding or compassion surrounding gender issues).
Youth culture has always been misunderstood by adults. That is why it is called “youth culture.” Youth have a different way of communicating and relating to their friends. They have a different understanding of what it means to be a citizen, what good music is, and what is funny. Youth are no longer satisfied with consuming media – they want to participate in it. Things like twitter, facebook, youtube have given young people a platform to broadcast every detail of their lives. And the funny thing is – people are listening. A video of some kid lip syncing a song in front of their computer camera has been watched by millions of people. Millions! Big downtown cathedrals that were filled in the 50s might have reached 5,000 – maybe.
All this boils down to this: If you want to communicate to young people, you need to know a new language. The church needs translators. In order to reach people with the good news of Jesus Christ, people need to be able to speak the language of those we are trying to reach. And if we are trying to reach young people, you have to at least know what those things are.
The images above represent vast changes in culture and language. Google used to be a number. Then it was a website. Now it is a verb. Hulu – and other technologies – have rendered such cultural stalwarts like Primetime Network Programming obsolete. There are no networks. There is no prime time. Facebook has changed the way we think about things like privacy, photo albums, prayer, politics, and even wedding invitations.
There is a new language, and if we are going to translate the language of Jesus Christ – the language of grace, forgiveness, compassion, justice, and love, we need to know the new language. It doesn’t mean that you have to run out and get a twitter account, but you should at least learn what it is. Translation however, is about more than facebook pages, blogs, and tweets. Translation is about taking the time to build relationships.
It is my deepest conviction that the heart of the Gospel message is relationship. It is about our relationship with God and our relationship with one another. The best way to translate the Good News of Jesus Christ is to live the Good News of Jesus Christ. The best way to teach a young person about a faith that changes the world is to go out and change the world. Jesus Christ has the power to transform lives, but it doesn’t always happen with a well-reasoned argument or an insightful Bible lesson. It happens when someone who is already in love with Jesus tells somebody else about that love.
We need translators of the Gospel. We need people who are willing to take the time to live authentic relationships with young people. And authentic is the key. We cannot put on airs. Young people are savvy. They see through BS. That is why knowing the language is so important, we can’t fake it. Translation only happens when people sincerely care. Translation begins at home. Young people might rebel, but their most important influence always has been and always will be their parents.
But here’s a warning for you: If you are willing to be a translator of the Gospel, that means you are willing to put the power of the Bible into the hands of inexperienced, energetic young people. It means that you are going to open up the power of the Holy Spirit to speak directly to people that might not think about church the way we think about church, people that might not think of music the way we think about music, people that might not think about God the way we think about God. They might not think of our institutions, our meetings, our buildings, our worship, or our barriers in the same way we think about them. Young people with the Holy Spirit might not do things the way we want them to because they might stop listening to us and start listening to God (Kendra Creasy Dean, Almost Christian, p. 130). So be warned. Translators are needed, but translate at your own risk.
A few weeks ago I threw my name into the hat to be elected to be a delegate for General Conference. At the time, I figured it was worth a shot. All it took was a 100-word essay and a picture. It was simple enough. All I thought was, why not? But now it is almost time to start voting, and I’m thinking that I’d better put a little more thought into it.
Why do I want to be a General Conference delegate?
This comes down a simple statement – I love the United Methodist Church. I want to be a part of the largest and most important body of United Methodist Christians. I want to enjoy that kind of fellowship of kindred spirits. I want to be a part of the legacy that started at the Christmas Conference over 200 years ago.
I know the United Methodist Church is not perfect. I have seen it at its ugliest. I have seen it fail to live up to the calling of Jesus Christ. Yet the United Methodist Church is the place where I have found grace. It is the Church that has nurtured me from birth. It is the Church that has shown me what it means to be a Christian, a servant, and a disciple.
How will I vote?
I probably sound like a politician here, but I honestly do not know how I would vote for controversial issues at General Conference. there are many issues that face the Church I love, and I want to do what is right for the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I can say this: I believe that the slogan of the United Methodist Church: “Open minds, open hearts, open doors,” resonates with me. I also believe that the word “open” that is repeated in that slogan needs to be understood as a verb, not as an adjective.
It is my sincerest hope and prayer that none of the controversies that the church faces will create widespread schism. I believe that the things that hold us together – the mission of Jesus Christ and the loving grace that is offered to all – are stronger than any of the controversies that would tear us apart.
What will you get if you vote for me?
You will get a pastor that is dedicated to doing what is best for the United Methodist Church. I was ordained in 2010, and am still considered “young clergy.” This is my first chance to be a delegate, and I believe that General Conference needs as many new people involved as possible to continue to breath life into the church.
I will go with great joy. I will worship with great passion. I will vote with my whole heart, mind and spirit. I will bathe myself in prayer, always seeking the Holy Spirit to guide my decisions. I will seek to be guided by Scripture, tradition, reason and experience.
I remember mixing the blueberry muffin batter. I was so careful not to spill the little tin of blueberries on the counter, because I knew it could stain. My brother was really in charge of the batter, but he would let me mix it too. He added the secret ingredient – the honey. It was my job to make the tea, which meant I put the mug of water in the microwave. We put the carefully crafted breakfast on our Dukes of Hazard TV tray, but we would cover up Bo, Luke and Daisy with something classy – like a paper towel. Just one more added touch to make it perfect – go out in the yard and find a flower. Pick the dandelion, put it in the glass and a perfect Mother’s Day breakfast in bed was ready.
I wonder how much the founders of Mother’s Day would recognize today’s ritual? What would they think of the handmade cards, the breakfast in bed, and the dandelion bouquets? There are three women generally recognized as the co-founders of Mother’s Day. All of them had similar ideas, and were inspired by similar motives. They were churchgoing women who wanted to recognize the role of mothers.
They were crusaders, rallying around the universal power of mothers to make the world a better place. Their passion, their overriding sense of call, was to the cause of peace. Julia Ward Howe, who wrote, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” was appalled by the evils of war and wanted to create a day where women would come together to make change in the world. Juliet Calhoun Blakely came to the pulpit in her Methodist Church in Michigan when the pastor was too drunk to finish the job and preached about temperance. Anna Jarvis taught Sunday school at a Methodist Church in West Virginia. Jarvis advocated for children’s health and welfare and promoted peace in a community torn by political rivalries. It was in West Virginia that the first Mother’s Day was officially recognized in 1908. On Mother’s Day we stand in the shadow of these mighty women, and I wonder what they would think.
These were women that had a strong sense for the pain in the world. What would they think of the sentimentality of the day they helped create? They understood pain in the world as only a mother could. Their sons’ bodies were sacrificed on the altar of war. Their sons had missing limbs, broken bodies and shattered spirits. Their sons abused alcohol, wasted their income, their time, and their energy on the promise of an empty bottle. Their daughters lived with terror of domestic violence. Their sons and daughters died slowly of disease. They were mothers – not just of the offspring they raised – but of all children.
It was in the midst of this pain that they stood. Out of the ashes of war, out of the shadow of abuse and alcohol, out of the despair of disease, the mothers stood. They were angry with the state of the world, and wanted a day to recognize the power of mercy and love. They wanted a day to recognize the power of women – mothers – to make a change in the world.
What would they think now? What would they do when they saw women in Africa weeping over a child dying every 45 seconds of malaria? What would they say to those that claim that health care is a privelege, not a right? What would they think when they saw more sons and daughters going off to another war to kill the sons of other mothers? How would they respond to the meth labs in living rooms? What kind of pain would they feel?
I’m guessing that they would feel just as mothers do today when they see their children suffer. I’m guessing they would continue to stand with their fellow mothers and support a local shelter for victims of domestic violence. They would get involved with Imagine No Malaria, a project with a plan to eradicate malaria deaths. They would help at food pantries at their church, organize health clinics, contribute to literacy campaigns. What would they do when they saw that their children were in pain? They would do what mothers do today: they would work, volunteer, preach, donate, teach, mentor, guide, and pray.
What would they think of a dandelion bouquet? I think they would treasure it just as my mother did – like all mothers do. They would see the love out of which it was made. They would know that all the work they do in the world is for this: So that children every where can live in peace. Those women, and women before them, and women since them have wanted this: to live in a world where all of God’s children are free to pick a dandelion bouquet – free of disease, free of fear, free of war.
Its a dream we all share. It is a dream for which we all work. In the meantime, take the time to pick a dandelion bouquet, and say a prayer for mothers.
5K 36:00 (Race for the Cure, Jun. '12)
35:15 (Firecracker Run, Jul. '12)
33:47 (Crimestoppers, Aug. '12)
31:40 (Lagomarcino's, Oct. '12)
26:52 (CASI St. Patrick's Day, Mar. '13)
26:28 (Railroad Days, Jun. '13)* *2nd place in age division
26:40 (Casa Guanajuato, Nov. '13)
30:30 (Modern Woodmen Knockout Hunger, Sep '14)** **3rd place in age division
Debut on 10/02/2008
1,000 total views on 12/04/2008
100,000 total views on 11/30/2011
200,000 total views on 5/26/2012
300,000 total views on 9/7/2013
400,000 total views on 5/23/2014
500,000 total views on 8/22/2015
All of the writing on this, and all pages at fatpastor.wordpress.com, are the sole possession of Robb McCoy, and are in no way affiliated with the United Methodist Church, or with any local congregation of the United Methodist Church.
Permission to use the written material on this site is granted for non-profit use, as long as credit is given to Robb McCoy and a reference to https://fatpastor.wordpress.com is used.
Comments and discussion are encouraged. However, any comment that is degrading, profane, violent, vulgar, or offensive will be removed.
All opinions and ideas are my own, unless otherwise noted. All opinions and ideas are subject to change depending on my own social location, events of the day, or my mood (it's all about the context, man!)
The Fat Pastor 