Category Archives: Christianity

April 24, 2011 · 10:05 am

An Easter Moment

I’m not sure why I have waited so long to tell this story, but on this Easter morning as my overwhelming joy is being converted to tears rolling down my cheek, I thought I’d share.  This is a brief story about my ordination last spring.  But I think you’ll see that it is really a story of Easter.

On that evening at Annual Conference I was ordained by Bishop Palmer.  I was given a Bible and a certificate and the authority to preach, teach and administer the sacraments.  On bended knee I accepted the responsibility, privilege, and humbling honor to be called an Elder in the United Methodist Church.  Bishop Palmer, along with Rev. Keith Zimmerman laid their hands on me and called upon the Holy Spirit.

I do not remember much that Bishop Palmer said to me in those moments.  I remember tears flowing down my face, and I remember the feel of his hands on me.  I felt the loving presence of my family – whom I knew to be standing behind me, in body and spirit, amongst the congregation of those gathered.  I knew that members of my church were there as well – beloved saints who had made the drive to be with me on that holy night.  But there were so many more.

As I bowed my head I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit.  It filled me with an unspeakable joy.  Then I saw something I wasn’t expecting.  It was a woman.  A beautiful woman smiling at me with a radiant glow.  She was so beautiful.  Her brown hair and brown eyes glowed.  Her face was youthful and filled with love and joy and I recognized her in an instant.  It was at the same time unexpected, completely real to me, and somehow no surprise.  It was my Aunt Jean.  Then she sort of nodded in a way that said to me, “Look who I brought.” She wasn’t alone.  Standing there with her were my Grandma Esther and my Grandpa Nick.  And with them were my other grandparents Eugene and Lucile.  The five of them stood there for a moment, looking at me with pride and joy.

When I was a boy, I remember going to the Communion rail with my Mom and Dad at Our Redeemer’s UMC.  We would kneel at the railing and take the bread and the cup and linger a little to pray.  I would always wait there, even if I was done praying, because I knew that if I waiting long enough, my Father’s hand would reach out and grip my shoulder.  Then his arm would wrap around me, and I would feel the power of his love and the love of my heavenly Father wrapping me up.  As I knelt at the railing at my ordination, I could feel the loving arms of my father and mother, my sister and brother, my wife and daughter and all of those that had lead me to that moment.

Then I saw my Uncle Larry and Aunt Janie and more and more saints – until I was completely surrounded.  I could hear them clearly saying, “We love you, Robby.”  There was a golden glow that surrounded them and fully embraced me.  I could feel again my father’s arms wrapping me up in unconditional love.  It was the single most powerful moment of my life because, you might have guessed, none of these people dwelled on earth any more.  I was surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses – the resurrected saints of God who were claiming me.

This was not a dream.  This was a holy vision and it was as real to me as holding my daughter at her birth.  It was an Easter moment.

Today we celebrate Easter and I am reminded of the power of the Holy Spirit to conquer sin and death.  I am reminded of the words that I have read at so many funeral services, “Where O death, is thy sting, where, o death, is your victory?”  I am reminded of the words of Charles Wesley, who wrote, “Lives again our glorious King. Alelulia! Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alelulia! Once he died our souls to save, Alelulia! Where’s thy victory boasting grave? Alelulia!”

I feel the sins of which I have been convicted.  I feel the sins of which I have been forgiven.  I feel the sin that remains in this world – the sins of war, poverty, hunger, racism, sexism, greed, corruption and the rape of the earth.  I know that the world threw everything it had at Jesus, and that on this day Jesus rose.  And just as Jesus defeated death, so too will God conquer all of these sins. On this day Jesus won the victory.  On this day life won. Grace won. Love won.

All of those that have died are alive again.  All of the battles I fight as a pastor, as a husband, as a father, as a son, and as a man – I fight surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses and by the power of the Holy Spirit.  I will surely fail.  I will fall and I will be beaten by temptation.  But I will rise; just as Aunt Jean rose.  Just as Eugene, Lucile, Esther and Nick rose.  Just as Jesus rose.

And so I invite you to rise as well.  Claim Jesus as your own.  Claim the victory that Jesus has won.  Be a part of the fight to redeem the world.  Rise and live in the Kingdom of God.  Rise because Christ is Risen.

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April 8, 2011 · 1:26 pm

Lazarus: Miracle and Motive

Listen to a podcast of the sermon “Lazarus: Miracle and Motive”

The lectionary text on Sunday is about Lazarus.  The Gospel of John tells us of the illness, death and raising of Lazarus.  This Sunday is exactly why I am not a lectionary preacher.  All too often, the lectionary cuts off stories just when they start to get interesting.

(A note to non-preachers: the lectionary is a tool used by preachers in many denominations to help guide worship.  It is a three-year cycle that offers four different Biblical texts from the gospels, the epistles, the Psalms, and the Hebrew Bible.)

It doesn’t just cut off the story before it gets interesting, it cuts off the story before the most important part is revealed.  The raising of Lazarus, as it is found in the lectionary, is about the power of Jesus.  The story, in typical John fashion, has Jesus almost floating around in his divine cloud, then raising his dead friend with only words.  The one glimpse of Jesus’s humanity is revealed in words of the story, “Jesus wept.”

To me though, the story of Lazarus is not so much about the power of Jesus.  The story of Lazarus is about how people react to this miracle.  The lectionary selection ends with, “Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him” (John 11:45, NRSV).

It sounds like a happy ending.  Jesus raises his friend.  Everyone rejoices.  Many people believe in him – “Woo Hoo!”  Here’s the problem: that’s only part of the reaction.  Ending the story here is irresponsible, and I think is symptomatic of a much greater problem we have in the church (and our culture) today.

Everyone likes the happy ending.  I can understand that, but focusing on the happy ending without also seeing the dangerous ramifcations of what Jesus accomplished simply capitulates to a christianish way of knowing Jesus.

Read more of the story – the part that the lectionary (and thus thousands of churches on Sunday) cuts out:

But some of them went to the Pharisees and told them what he had done. So the chief priests and the Pharisees called a meeting of the council, and said, “What are we to do? This man is performing many signs. If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation.” But one of them, Caiaphas, who was high priest that year, said to them, “You know nothing at all! You do not understand that it is better for you to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed.” He did not say this on his own, but being high priest that year he prophesied that Jesus was about to die for the nation,and not for the nation only, but to gather into one the dispersed children of God. So from that day on they planned to put him to death. (John 11:46-53, NRSV)

Here we see the other reaction to Jesus.  In Lazarus, we see Jesus’s greatest earthly demonstration of his power.  We see Martha recognize Jesus as the “Mesiah.”  We see many come to believe in Jesus.  We see Jesus offer life, and ultimately, we see those in power respond with death.

It can be difficult to understand their motive.  Why would they want Jesus dead?  He offers life.  Why would they respond with death?  It is hard to understand. Didn’t they understand what they were doing?  Why would they respond with death?  Didn’t they understand that Jesus offered life? Didn’t they know his power?

The answer is: Yes.  They understood, and that is why they were scared.  Their response was motivated primarily by fear.  They feared Jesus because his was a power they could not abide.  They feared Jesus because he was threatening their way of life.  He was threatening their comfort, their position, and ultimately their power.  The Chief Priests were in power because they had capitulated to the greatest power that the world had ever known – the Roman empire.

They killed Jesus because he offered life, and they knew that the only thing that Rome had to offer was death.  They killed him because he offered life.  They killed him because they understood what his message was, and now they realized that he had real power behind him as well.  Until Lazarus, he was just another reformer.  He was just a vagabond with some followers stirring up trouble here and there.  After Lazarus they knew his power.  They knew they were in trouble.

It is unfortunate that in most churches on Sunday, no one will hear this part of the story, because hearing this part of the story makes us answer the question: What is our response to Jesus?  Who are we going to be like, Martha – calling Jesus the Mesiah, or the Chief Priests – fearing what Jesus might do if he were allowed to live.

Before you jump to an answer, let me offer this: If you don’t have a little bit of fear, then I think you might be christian-ish, or as Kendra Creasy Dean would put it, you might be Almost Christian.  I say this because I think the Chief Priests had it more right than most people give them credit for.  Jesus is dangerous.

Jesus has the power to turn your life upside down.  Jesus offers life, but he also offers a cross.  He offers life, but only to those that would turn their life away.  He offers comfort, but only to those that mourn.  Jesus came to afflict the comfortable.  He came to turn sons against fathers and daughters against mothers.

If we don’t have at least a little bit of fear about what discipleship really means, than I’m not sure we really get it.  Following Jesus can lead people into dark places – uncomfortable, dirty, smelly places.  It can lead us into danger, and bring us into contact with dangerous people.  Following Jesus calls us to our pews and our hymns and our rituals, but it also demands that we go out into the world.  Jesus calls us to love.  And love can be difficult sometimes.

Following Jesus means that we have to love, and its okay if that scares you a little.  It should.  It means that you’re paying attention.  It means that you have your eyes wide open to the cost of discipleship.  It means that you didn’t stop reading the story of Lazarus with the “Woo Hoo!” moment.

The Church, by and large, on Sunday will end the story of Lazarus with a happy ending, but they will forget to see the danger of what Jesus did.  Jesus revealed that his power was of God, and those that held onto Earthly power reacted in the only way they knew how.  But here’s the part the chief priests didn’t understand: they thought the death they gave him would be the end of him.

They thought the cross they hung him from would break him.  They thought the tomb they sealed him in would keep him.

How wrong they were.  And how wrong we are if we think that the power of Jesus is something that shouldn’t be feared.  I hope that when the Church hears Jesus cry, “Lazarus, come out!”  all the people heed his words.

Church, Come out!  Come out of your comfort zone.  Come out of your fortress.  Come out of your “good old days.”  Come out of your sin.  Come out of the lies that tell us how to succeed, consume, spend, buy, then donate and be happy.  Come out of your slumber, and go into the Kingdom.  Come out of your slumber, and go into your  mission.  Come out of your slumber, and go and make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.

Go knowing that it can be dangerous.  Go knowing that Christ is with you.  Go knowing that the Holy Spirit will sustain you.  Go knowing that love is the only power that lasts.

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March 17, 2011 · 3:35 pm

Everybody’s Irish?

From Jacqueline Shuler, the artist:

From Jacqueline Shuler, the artist: “Classic Irish Blessing with tenth century Celtic hand lettering.The capitals in the title are decorated with authentic “zoomorphs”. These are animal images interwoven with the letters. I drew the interweaving border which has no beginning or end, in the tradition of Celtic decoration. I placed a trefoil, symbol of the Trinity, along the bottom border. I focus on making my designs authentic by using the letters and designs embedded in the culture–in this case, Ireland in the tenth century”

I love St. Patrick’s Day.  I love my Irish heritage, and love trying to spread a little knowledge about St. Patrick.  The McCoy family never sends out Christmas cards.  We send out St. Patrick’s Day cards, and I love looking up a good Irish blessing, or a prayer of St. Patrick to put in it.

The McCoy name is Irish, but it is not easily traced because it has many different roots.  It may be Scotch-Irish. While my Dad and I were in Ireland, we found out that the McCoys (or simply Coys or MacCaugheys) moved from Ireland to Scotland before coming to America.

Every St. Patrick’s Day I think back to the time my Dad and I spent in Ireland. It was honestly one of the best weeks of my life. We listened to music in Dublin, and held our breath on the Cliffs of Moher. We marveled at the hillsides that looked as if God had laid down a quilt of green. We kissed the Blarney stone.  We danced. We sang.  We drank some Harp (I hadn’t yet acquired the taste for Guinness), and talked to kind, hospitable people wherever we went. My Irish heritage might be less than pure, but Ireland has claimed a piece of my heart.

Today, there are few things I enjoy more than sitting down with a Guinness and some friends and listening to some good Irish music. So today, everyone is Irish.

Okay – that sounds nice, but how many people really stop and think about what that means?  

If by saying “Today I’m Irish,” you mean that you want to drink Budweiser with blue food coloring in it; act like an fool; start a fight; and wear some silly, vulgar, green t-shirt; then frankly, I’d prefer if you just stayed German (or Polish or Swedish or African American or English or whatever you are) and act like a fool because you are a fool, not in the name of ‘being Irish.’

If, however, by saying “Today I’m Irish” you mean that you respect Irish culture, want to enjoy a good evening with friends with some good music and a pint or two, then yes, you are Irish. If it means that you are going to Mass or said a prayer for the Irish people, then yes, today you are Irish.  If it means that  you stand in solidarity with a people that suffered centuries of famine, subjugation, attempted genocide at home, and racism and violence that greeted them when they got to America, then yes, today you are Irish.

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Indeed, today we may all be Irish, and I leave you with this, “The Breastplate of Saint Patrick,” as found on the website prayerfoundation.org.

I bind unto myself today The strong Name of the Trinity, By invocation of the same, The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this day to me for ever. By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation; His baptism in the Jordan river; His death on Cross for my salvation; His bursting from the spicèd tomb; His riding up the heavenly way; His coming at the day of doom; I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power Of the great love of the cherubim; The sweet ‘well done’ in judgment hour, The service of the seraphim, Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word, The Patriarchs’ prayers, the Prophets’ scrolls, All good deeds done unto the Lord, And purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today The virtues of the starlit heaven, The glorious sun’s life-giving ray, The whiteness of the moon at even, The flashing of the lightning free, The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks, The stable earth, the deep salt sea, Around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today The power of God to hold and lead, His eye to watch, His might to stay, His ear to hearken to my need. The wisdom of my God to teach, His hand to guide, His shield to ward, The word of God to give me speech, His heavenly host to be my guard.

Against the demon snares of sin, The vice that gives temptation force, The natural lusts that war within, The hostile men that mar my course; Or few or many, far or nigh, In every place and in all hours, Against their fierce hostility, I bind to me these holy powers.

Against all Satan’s spells and wiles, Against false words of heresy, Against the knowledge that defiles, Against the heart’s idolatry, Against the wizard’s evil craft, Against the death wound and the burning, The choking wave and the poisoned shaft, Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.

Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me. Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the Name, The strong Name of the Trinity; By invocation of the same. The Three in One, and One in Three, Of Whom all nature hath creation, Eternal Father, Spirit, Word: Praise to the Lord of my salvation, Salvation is of Christ the Lord.

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March 9, 2011 · 4:44 pm

Take up something for Lent

I’ve been reading a lot on facebook today about people giving something up for Lent.  Several have said their FB “goodbye,” because they will be giving up facebook.  Thousands (millions?) will be giving up chocolate, french fries, cofee, swearing, late-night snacks, food during the day, or somesuch other thing.

They will do it in the name of fasting.  The idea of giving up something for Lent has taken on a certain cultural cache.  It is a strange phenomon in our culture of overindulgence.  On the surface, I see it as a good thing.  Self-denial, even of menial or luxuriant things, is a much overlooked virtue.  So I applaud all of those that, in the name of God or their faith, are trying to give up something for Lent.

I just want to add a word of caution.  Don’t let your giving something up for Lent replace an actual relationship with the living God.  And don’t let your sense of piety over giving up something for Lent keep you from taking a hard look at what God really wants us to be doing.

This is the kind of fast day I’m after:
to break the chains of injustice,
get rid of exploitation in the workplace,
free the oppressed,
cancel debts.
What I’m interested in seeing you do is:
sharing your food with the hungry,
inviting the homeless poor into your homes,
putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad,
being available to your own families.  (Isaiah 58:6-7, The Message)

Just be careful.  It is great to do something for God.  It is great to remember the sacrifice that Christ made for us.  Just do it for the right reasons.  Don’t get caught up in the cultural trend of giving something up without also trying to take something up.  We give things up to make room to take things up.  Give up something that is getting in the way of your relationship with God.  Give something up that is getting in the way of the Kingdom.

Give up chocolate.  Give up chocolate that is made on the backs of the working poor.  Give up choclate that enslaves children and puts them in dangerous working conditions. Give up Hershey.  And take up Fair-Trade chocolate.

Give up facebook.  And take up a pen and piece of paper and a stamp, and write a note to a teacher, a friend, a loved one, someone sick, or someone lonely.

Give up TV.  And take up conversations.  Take up stronger relationships.  Take up the Bible.  Take up prayer.

Give up oppression.  Give up resentment.  Give up fear.  And take up justice.  Take up reconciliation.  Take up love.

Mark your forehead with ashes – not to take up shame and guilt.  Mark your forehead with ashes – and take up your inheritance as a child of God.  Take up your task to do the work of Christ.  Mark the start of your journey to the cross, so that when you get to Easter, you can look back and know that this Lent, you did something with God.  Then sing “Hallelujah, The Kingdom has come.”

If you liked this post, you might find the podcast “Pulpit Fiction” interesting.  Go to the Pulpit Fiction homepage for commentaries on the Biblical text throughout Lent – and every week of the year.

40 Notes in 40 Days – An old-fashioned exercise for a digital age.

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February 28, 2011 · 12:00 pm

My last sermon at CUMC

Thanks to Lisa, who was able to record my final service at Chenoa UMC on her Flip Video camera.  With the Scripture reading, it lasts about 25 minutes, and is divided into two parts.

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February 26, 2011 · 9:41 pm

Partners in Hope

This is a video I put together with pictures I found on the internet plus my pictures and videos from my recent trip to Liberia.

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February 21, 2011 · 9:46 am

I just want to say ‘thank you, thank you my Lord.’

It was hot.  We were sweaty.  I was dirty and sore and tired.  And then we started to sing.  We took each other by the hand and made a circle, and we sang:

“I just want to say thank you, thank you my Lord.

I just want to say thank you, thank you my Lord.

For your blessings we say thank you, thank you my Lord.

I just want to say thank you, thank you my Lord.”

Inside New Hope UMC

The floor of New Hope United Methodist Church was not yet finished, but it was closer than it was at the beginning of the day.  We had spent the morning and early afternoon working hard.  First we hauled forty wheel barrows  of sand into the church.  Then carried twenty 110 pound bags of cement into the church.  After dumping the cement onto the sand, we mixed it up with spades.  The Liberian men that were there knew what they were doing.  We learned by watching, and pitched in.  I feared that we might be slowing them down – or worse – taking away work that they wouldn’t get paid for.  But their smiles and gestures of help allayed my fears.

Working together at New Hope UMC

The process was long and slow.  Others in our group affixed wires to the undergrid.  Others spread sand on the dirt floor, providing even ground on which to pour the cement.  Then we hauled in 30 wheel barrows of rock and dumped them on the huge pile of sand-cement mixture.  Then came the water, and more mixing.  When the cement was finally mixed and wet, it was put into a wheel barrow and dumped on the floor, where skilled masons spread it out and made it level.

I love that the sign in Monrovia pointing to the United Methodist Church looks just like the one in Chenoa.

New Hope United Methodist Church sits on a hill on the outskirts of Monrovia.  It is the biggest building in the little neighborhood.  Inside there was a sign that read “2011-Our year of divine breakthrough.”  The people of New Hope used to worship at homes, and then in a structure of sticks holding up a tin roof.  The new New Hope UMC is a structure of cinderblocks with a vaulted ceiling.  The roof is supported by wooden trusses under tin sheets.  The floor was half cement, half dirt.  By the end of the week, the floor will be complete.

Those working were a mix of clergy and laity, American and Liberian, black and white, skilled worker and unskilled laborer, man and woman, educated and uneducated, paid employee and volunteer.  What we held in common was much stronger than the things that could divide us.  And in that moment in the back of the church, what united us came out in song.

I was a part of a group made up of mostly newly ordained clergy, we had spent the last two weeks doing various projects in and around Liberia.  This was the last day of work.  We gathered to make sure we were all together before we walked down the hill to get in our van and head back to the United Methodist guesthouse in the city.  I’m not sure who started singing, but the singing started quietly.  It was a song we had learned from the Liberian people.

“I just want to say thank you, thank you my Lord…”

And then an amazing thing happened. Many of the Liberians that were still hard at work came over.  They put down their spades.  They put down their wheel barrows, and they joined us.  We took each other by the hand and formed a circle.  We were no longer Americans and Liberians.  We were no longer black and white.  We were simply God’s children.  We were one in Christ, and we sang.  We sang as loud as our lungs could muster.   I was already covered in sweat and cement dust.  Now tears were added to the mixture.  The pastor of New Hope United Methodist Church prayed.  We gave thanks to God for the cement floor, but also for so much more.

We thanked God for the relationship between the people of Liberia and the people of the Illinois Great Rivers Conference.  We thanked God for the connection of the United Methodist Church.  We thanked God for the respect and friendship that was forged in our sweat.  We thanked God for hope.

The Fat Pastor working hard.

We broke the circle and it took us a few minutes to actually leave.  We shared hand shakes.  We shared hugs.  A few small tokens of appreciation were exchanged.  A few last pictures were taken.  There were many smiles, and then we got in the van and drove away.  None of us truly left.

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February 3, 2011 · 4:44 pm

I’m scared

The music pounded out a beat.  The nine-piece band and two singers were really letting it go.  They sang of God’s goodness.  They sang of God’s providence, of God’s peace and God’s justice.  I stood there and allowed the music to envelope me.  I swayed a little, closed my eyes and prayed.  I tried to sing the words, but my voice faltered.  I gathered myself, tried to sing again, but nothing would come.

Tears came instead.  The music continued, and I could feel a great weight being lifted off of me.  I could feel myself letting go of so much tension.  Now the tears were flowing freely.  Still no words to sing, only a voice crying out, drowned out by the music and the singing – “I’m scared.”

A simple, two-word prayer.  Again, I cried, “I’m so scared.”  Now a three-word prayer, it was the limit of my ability to articulate what I was thinking and feeling. I reached over to grab my wife’s hand.  I squeezed it, held her close and said to her, “I’m so scared.”

It was a lamentation.  All I could do was cry out to God in lamentation.  I know God is with me.  I know that God is good.  I know that I can do all things through Christ.  I know that nothing will separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus.  Yet in that moment the Holy Spirit was able to break into my heart and allowed me to simply lament.  Does it mean that I have any less faith?  I don’t think so.  It was a powerful and incredibly healing moment.

We’ll be spending most of our time in the capital city of Monrovia, building a school in the West Point section; and Ganta.

I’m scared.  I’m excited too, but in that moment all I could do was cry, “I’m scared.”  I’m scared of going to Liberia for two weeks.  I’m scared of 13 hours in a seat not designed for Fat Pastors.  I’m scared of leaving my girls.  I’m scared of missing their bedtime story.  I’m scared of missing their kisses.  I’m scared of mosquitoes and infected water.  I’m scared of sweltering heat.  I’m scared of fugitives and the desparately poor and the contagiously sick.  I’m scared of stories of evil and brutality for which my heart is not prepared.

I’m scared of moving to Moline a week after I get back from Liberia.  I’m scared of packing up all our junk.  I’m scared of getting it all done in time.  I’m scared of leaving Chenoa, my church, my friends.  I’m scared of leaving behind all that we have built.  I’m scared for ministries that might lose momentum.  I’m scared of not preaching every week.  I’m scared of not knowing every single person I worship with on Sunday.  I’m scared of getting lost – not just in a new city, but in the biggest church I’ve ever worked. I’m scared of starting from scratch.  Despite this fear, I believe.

I believe I’m going to have an amazing trip.  I believe I’m going to be transformed in ways I cannot even anticipate.  I believe I will hear stories of hope and redemption that will fill my heart with joy.  I believe I am going to build relationship with people that will last a lifetime.  I believe that when I get back to Chenoa we will pack up all our stuff on time. I believe that the church in Chenoa will go on strong without me.  I believe that the leadership will not lose sight of their mission.  I believe that there are tremendous people, opportunities and resources in Moline that will allign well with my talents and passion.  I believe that together we will do great work for Kingdom of God.  I believe these things, and yet I’m scared.

I sit here and feel both strong and scared at the same time. It is okay for me to be both excited and terrified.  It is right, and a good and joyful thing for me to wipe away tears one moment, and then smile wide the next.  I’m excited.  It doesn’t make me love my family or the people of Chenoa any less.  I’m sad.  That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy Liberia or Moline.

I’m scared.  It doesn’t make me any less of a  man.  It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God.  It doesn’t make me a worse pastor.  It just means that I’m human.  I’m scared, but I move on.  I move on with my family.  I move on with God.  I move on straight into my fear, and that is all that matters.

If you would like to donate to my trip to Liberia, all the money I collect between now and Saturday will be taken as cash and given DIRECTLY to churches and hosts.  Please click here to be taken to the donation page.

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January 31, 2011 · 10:49 am

You’re going where?!?

I’ve collected enough money to get there and back. All the money I collect now will go directly to churches and people in Liberia. Click on the thermometer to be taken to my Donation page. Click on donate to make a $10 donation through Paypal.

“You’re going where?”  I’ve been asked that more than a few times recently.  Depending on the tone of the question, it can be loaded with shock, worry or confusion.  “Is that near Egypt?”  Is the common follow-up question.

“No, you might be thinking of Libya,” I say.  “You know how Africa has a bump on the side?  Liberia is sort on the bottom of that bump.”

“Are you going to be safe?” they ask.  “Right now, the most dangerous things are the water and the mosquitoes.  They’ve had peace since 2003, and a legitimate democratic government since 2006.  Their president is a United Methodist.”

Some wonder why I’m going.  Sometimes, especially now that it is so close, I wonder why I’m going.  It really doesn’t make any sense.  Why would I leave my home – a warm house, a comfortable bed, two daughters that light up when they see me, a wife who makes my heart leap when I hold her.  Why would I leave all of this for two days, let alone two weeks?

Why would I travel 10,000 miles to live for two weeks in sweltering heat, without reliable electricity (sorry, no air-conditioning), without land-line telephones, without clean tap water?  Why would I go to a place that is going to be 100 degree heat indexes, but is dangerous to wear short sleeves because the mosquitoes often carry malaria?  It doesn’t make any sense.

I’m going for two weeks to do what?  Paint a hospital – anyone can do that.  Attend annual conference – really?  I’m going 10,000 miles to sit at a budget approval meeting?  Build a school in Monrovia – I don’t know anything about building a school.  Why would I spend two weeks and $1,500 to do things that Liberians can do just as well – if not better – than me?  It doesn’t make any sense.

You know what though?  Sometimes the Kingdom of God doesn’t make sense.  This is the parable of the mustard seed.  It is one of the shortest parables of Jesus.  This is Matthew 13:31-32 (NRSV).

He put before them another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.’

Most people read this story hear only the part about a small seed turning into a large tree, but let’s look at this short parable a little closer.  Jesus says that the Kingdom of Heaven is like someone taking  a mustard seed and sowing it in a field.  Really?  Who would do that?  If you had a field or a garden, and were hoping to grow something that produced a crop, would you really sow a mustard seed?  The parable says that the seed turns into a shrub, and then a huge tree – big enough for birds to make nests.  Drive through rural Illinois or Iowa – there are lush, green fields as far as the eye can see.  How many huge trees are there in the midst of the corn and soybeans?

Think also about a garden.  A huge tree – complete with birds and other small animals – is the last thing you would want in it.  Sowing a mustard seed in a field just doens’t make sense.  Jesus compares the Kingdom of God to planting a tree in a field, or a weed in a garden.  Today he might have said, “The Kingdom of God is like planting dandelions on your front lawn.  One pops up, and before you know it, your whole yard is covered in them.”

It just doesn’t make sense.  The Kingdom of God doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make any sense for me to go to Liberia, but sometimes the Kingdom of God is about doing something that doesn’t make sense.  The Kingdom of God is about learning something totally new about “what makes sense.”  When someone strikes you on the face, it doesn’t make any sense to turn the other cheek.  When someone steals your cloak, it doesn’t make any sense to give him your cloak as well.  It makes sense to love your neighbor and hate your enemy.  But Jesus told us that’s not how the Kingdom of God works.

Common sense tells us to work, accumulate, gain status, grow in stature and garner power.  Common sense tells us to get revenge when we can, to punish when we are able and to win at all costs.  The Kingdom of God isn’t about making sense.  It didn’t make any sense for Jesus to forgive the tax collectors.  It didn’t make any sense when Jesus healed the sick or fed the hungry.  It didn’t make any sense for Jesus to allow himself to be put on a cross because of my sins.  And it definately didn’t make any sense for him to conquer the grave and leave the tomb empty.

The Kingdom of God doesn’t make sense, and the only way we’re going to get there is if people are willing to do some things that don’t make sense.  It doesn’t make sense to fogive.  It doesn’t make sense to seek reconciliation.  It doesn’t make sense to be love mercy, do justice and walk humbly with your God.

It doesn’t make sense for me to go to Liberia.  But I’m going anyway.  I’m going to meet people, share stories, and build relationships.  I am going to walk amongst a people that still proclaim “God is so good” even though it doesn’t make sense.  I’m going to a place that faced 13 years of the most brutal war the world has ever seen.  I’m going to a country that saw 200,000 people die, 2,000,000 become homeless.  I’m going to a place where girls raped, kidnapped and turned into “brides” for brutal warlords.  I’m going to a place where boys saw their parents murdered, were kidnapped, given heroine and guns and forced to become soldiers.

I’m going to a place that has no reason to have hope.  It doesn’t make any sense for people to be kind and generous.  It doesn’t make any sense for people to come to worship and declare “God is so good.”  It doesn’t make any sense.  And that’s why I’m going, because sometimes we all have to do something that just doesn’t make sense.

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December 17, 2010 · 12:19 am

The Longest Night

On Christmas Eve churches everywhere will be filled with happy people.  The lights will be on, the poinsettias arranged, the sweaters will be bright, and the smiles will be wide.  People will gather in the pews and sing the traditional carols, hear the Christmas story, and light candles.  Millions on Christmas Eve night will rise and sing “Joy to the World.”

Many of those same people that will rise and sing on December 24 will go to bed on December 21 and face the longest night of the year in despair. There will be many that lie down wondering, “Where is the joy?”  For people that are hurting, struggling, or mourning, the longest night of the year is so very long.

The bills have not been paid, the credit debt is mounting, and work is hard to come by.  The night is so very long.

My mother died at this time of the year.  Christmas won’t be the same.  I miss her smile.  I miss her words of wisdom.  I miss her so much, and the night is so very long.

For the last 53 Christmases I have been with my husband.  He held me in his arms as we watched the children, then the grandhcildren, open their presents.  He made hot cocoa every Christmas morning.  I do not even know the recipe, and the night is so very long.

The onesies I got for Christmas last year are put in a box in the attic.  Never worn.  Never held.  I miss my child and I never held him in my arms, and the night is so very long.

The night can be so very long.  The night can be so very dark and cold.

Some say that everything happens for a reason.  God is in control, and has a plan.  But what kind of God could plan such things?  Is this the God that I am supposd to celebrate?  Is this the God that I am supposed to worship?  How can I sing “Joy to the World,” when there is none in my own heart?

Christmas does not mean everything is okay.  Christmas did not end the sadness, the pain or the despair.  For those that are hurting at Christmas, I hope you know that you are not alone.  I do not offer you simple platitudes.  I do not offer you easy answers.  All I can offer you is my love.

I don’t think that everything happens for a reason.  I think there are terrible things that happen everyday that God did not plan. I also think that God gives us the power and the grace to overcome even the worst that can happen.  God gives us the chance to heal and be healed; to feed and be fed; to love and be loved.

The longest night can be so very long.  Christmas does not end the night, but it gives us hope for the dawn.

Liturgy for a worship service “For those that mourn at Christmas”

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